


Summit Fever

by J_Baillier



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Annapurna I, Awkward Exes, Death, Doctor John Watson, Drama, High-altitude Medicine, High-altitude pining, K2 aka Mt Godwin-Austen, Loneliness, Loss, M/M, Mountain scenery porn, Mountaineering, Nepal, Off-label use of Viagra, POV John Watson, Relationship Issues, Rescue, Romance, Rugged Mountain Daddy John, Sherlock Holmes and Drug Use, Sherlock eats some humble pie, Somewhat tasteful tent porns, Soul-Searching, Suicidal Ideation, Suspense, Thailand, The Death Zone, The Himalayas, Things done inside sleeping bags, Tragedy, Wilderness Survival, and the rating's gone up a bit, except for the last two chapters, hey look there are new tags, mountain climbing, our boys being their typical idiot selves, served to him by the mountains and a certain someone
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-30
Updated: 2018-11-08
Packaged: 2019-07-20 18:48:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 78,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16143296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/J_Baillier/pseuds/J_Baillier
Summary: After graduating from medical school, John Watson followed his heart to the Himalayas. Ten years later, he's a haunted cynic working for his ex-lover's trekking and mountaineering company. Will leading an expedition to Annapurna I—the most lethal of all the world's highest mountains—shake John out of his reverie, and who is the mystery client added to the group at the last minute?





	1. Best Laid Plans

**Author's Note:**

> So begins our Himalayan adventure. There will be copious but skippable author's notes explaining terms and concepts most likely unfamiliar to lots of readers. I will also be doing some behind-the-scenes commentary over at Tumblr (@jbaillier) about the planning, structuring and execution of this AU. Don't hesitate to ask if there is anything that feels confusing—I love questions!
> 
> Betaed by 7PercentSolution and AnyaWen. Chapters 17-18 were drafted by 7PercentSolution, expanded and edited by J. Baillier.

 

 

>  
> 
> " _Climb if you will, but remember that courage and strength are nought without prudence, and that a momentary negligence may destroy the happiness of a lifetime. Do nothing in haste; look well to each step; and from the beginning think what may be the end_."   
>  — Edward Whymper, " _Scrambles Amongst the Alps_ " —

  
  
Company policy dictates that employees should be recognisable from an official logo at all times, so John zips open his thick, thermal fleece to reveal the worn official Summit Fever T-shirt underneath. He agrees on the necessity of such rules at trade fairs and when guiding on crowded peaks such as Everest, but where he is heading next, such things seem superfluous.

He wishes he hadn't put off restocking his expedition pharmacy; a pounding headache produced by yesterday's all-nighter catching up with colleagues-slash-friends at the Rum Doodle could use paracetamol. He digs a water bottle out of his backpack; at least he can fix his dehydration.

This isn't the sort of luxury hotel from which commercial Everest expeditions often start these days. Those who can splurge on the astronomical prices of Nepalese climbing permits won't hesitate to throw in a couple of comfortable nights before and after spending months in a tent. No, this is Hotel Yambu—a clean, trusty outfit that has served trekkers and mountaineers for a venerable number of years. It's a place for those who'd rather spend their hard-earned money on bottled oxygen than millionaire-worthy cotton thread counts.

After taking a quick survey of the small group gathering in the foyer, John clears his throat and squares his shoulders. First impressions are important: he has minutes to convince this group of experienced climbers that he's a man who can help them beat downright frightening statistics. He is painfully aware of the scrutiny he will soon be under; instead of being a twenty-plus motley group of varying experience levels and mixed motives heading up Everest, these six climbers are here because they've already proven their worth. Having the money isn't enough: to join this particular expedition, they were required to have experience of scaling several eight-thousand-metre peaks.

John has summited an impressive number of the fourteen mountains on Earth reaching up to such heights; his first attempt on Annapurna I ended in tragedy. As much as the mountain frightens him based on that experience, how could he not try to reach for the missing piece? There is no way that he could have refused this assignment; he has a lot more experience now than he'd had the last time, and there's no one else in the firm who could have taken the lead on this one.

He won't repeat his mistakes. _It'll be better._ _Safer._

He knows, of course, that little is under his control—least of all the weather. But, if he's a good enough leader, he should be able to lessen the risk of human error costing the lives of their clients of his staff. It would be risky just to risk his own life trying to climb a peak that has claimed every third life gambled on in; taking it upon himself to try to ensure the safety of others on a mountain much more treacherous than many of the higher eight-thousanders is not a burden many guides would accept. There are warring factions in his brain: one is trying to warn him off, the other lusting after the clear mountain air and the solitude of the glaciers and the looming towers of ice and snow up above. The Annapurna Sanctuary attracts a lot of trekkers, but  the area surrounding the peaks that have given the region its name attracts very few climbers compared to the circus at Mount Everest.

John is glad he won't be going there for this season. There's only so much of that commercialised madness a reputable mountain guide can take. The infighting, the scams, the inexperienced idiots getting themselves killed for a summit selfie, the crowds, the tourists at base camp, the traffic jams near the summit... The world's highest mountain has stopped being a temple of tranquillity and become the playing ground of former Playboy Playmates, people wanting bragging rights to be, say, the first left-handed Polish person to stand atop it, reality TV crews, celebrities expecting to be carried up on the shoulders of a Sherpa lest their French manicure get ruined using a jumar. Some climbers pick the Chinese north side, but the crowds are spreading there now, too, since the permits are cheaper. Six months ago, when they'd been planning this year's expeditions, John had begged to be sent somewhere else than that cash cow, hoping that the CEO of Summit Fever would be hankering for a few expeditions to some of the favourite starter eight-thousanders such as Cho Oyu.

Instead, he got the exact opposite. John really hadn't expected Annapurna I, but here he is.

The climbers—his clients—have all noticed him, now. Most look expectant, some mostly just tired after their long flights.

"Morning," John says, and six pairs of eyes combined with smiles of varying warmth are directed at him. Hands are shaken, introductions made.

There's a Norwegian couple—young, fit, meticulous planners, earnest about their plan to climb all the eight-thousanders. Next up, a Japanese woman who has pioneered several astoundingly tricky rock climbing routes in the Cordilleras. Two British climbers stand by a potted plant—as a British-owned company, Summit Fever is understandably the go-to outfit for Brits looking for a well-organised and responsible expedition. In the ten years John has spent in the Himalayas, the company has risen from a shoestring endeavour to one of the three most well-known commercial organisers of demanding climbs. Their safety record is exemplary, and it's up to John and his team to keep it that way.

The final member of the group is Al North, a seventy-two-year-old Canadian climbing legend who has been defeated by the wrath of the Annapurna massif twice before when climbing with just his partner instead of joining an expedition. That partner had died on Kangchenjunga last year. John had spoken to Al on the phone two months ago since he is obliged to interview every potential client personally. Al had told him that he wanted to join a commercial climb because he had nothing to prove by going alone, and if he were ever going to conquer Annapurna, he'd prefer to come back off the summit alive. John is very glad that North is coming along; the more experience the members have among them, the better their chances.  

Two less experienced guides will assist John. One is a wiry New Zealander with an enthusiastic, almost restless disposition but outstanding glacier-reading skills, the other an outspoken French woman who will also act as the group's meteorologist. There will be no need for a medic—John will serve in the double role of camp physician and expedition leader.

He leads the group to the hotel's small meeting room. The WiFi is down, which means that John can't start off by his collection of beautiful photos from past expeditions housed on the company server, nor can he follow that up with their standard glitzy powerpoint presentation. Instead, he'll have to do this the old-fashioned way, without any visual aids. He's done dozens and dozens of these expedition briefs, but due to their importance, they have never begun feeling like a routine hoop to jump through. They are for establishing ground rules, instilling both confidence and a fear of the mountain gods into his clients. Rules need to be laid out now, not on the mountain.

He doesn't introduce himself formally at the start of the assembly, having done so personally to each of the clients on the phone. "On behalf of Summit Fever staff, thank you for choosing us to guide you. Guiding being a relative term, of course—this isn't a party bus to Everest, so you will all be expected to be able to recognise a crampon from a condom."

There's a round of chuckles.

John lets his smile wane. "You all know what we're up against, but to test your ability to stay awake while jet-lagged, I'll go through the basics anyway."

The energy in the room focuses; smiles give way to determination.

"Annapurna is the lowest of the eight-thousanders, but least climbed. The death rate is thirty-eight per cent, meaning that once this is over, it is unlikely we'll all be standing here. Our team will do everything in our power to bring you all back home, but there's no denying that Annapurna kills experienced climbers since even rookies are smart enough not to attempt it."

Expressions turn sober. Everyone gathered at the table knows this, but it's a step up on the shock ladder to look around a room and see real people whose death they might be mourning in the coming months. People they will learn to know intimately since they will all be sharing meals, tents, Sherpas, and worries. The exhilaration and agony of climbing these mountains bring people together—and sometimes rips their relationships apart.

"The approach to the Sanctuary can be done via a long trek, bus, or helicopter. Since we will take a chopper in, to acclimatise, we need to get out there and scale some training peaks before our summit bid. Pisang and Hiunchuli have been chosen for this, both taking us over six thousand metres. If anyone develops mountain sickness symptoms during those preparatory climbs, I'm afraid the game is over for you. The same goes for developing symptoms during the first stages of the Annapurna I climb. There will be _no_ shooting up dex and hoping for the best—you’ll come down to Base Camp and stay there. You cannot afford any additional disability up on Annapurna than what every climber suffers up there at baseline. We have to be stricter here than on Everest; while it will be nice to have so few climbers up there with us, it means less able hands to help anyone stricken with hypothermia, HAPE or HACE. Be honest with yourselves, and with me—that's the only way to stay alive."

"When will you do our medicals?" The question is from one of the two Britons. Summit Fever requires that their own medic gives every climber a once-over at the start of an expedition.

"I'll be doing them during our first days at Base Camp," John replies. "No point in spending precious preparation time here since we have to be able to assume you are all currently fit and healthy."

A few nods echo his statement. Kathmandu is their last stop before the wilderness; whatever the climbers need to acquire, it must be done during these finals days in civilisation.

"Out of this group, one climber has attempted Annapurna before, as have two guides. Our Sherpas naturally have extensive climbing experience in the area. But, as Al said to me on the phone––" John gives a nod to the older man, "––on Annapurna experience matters less than luck. As you already know, we will be using the Lafaille route up the South Face, establishing four camps. No one is to spend the night at the fourth one unless absolutely forced to; it will be strictly for storing gear. It's too exposed and high to bivouac safely for any amount of time."

No one raises a hand to question any of John's strict instructions. The clients make a few inquiries about practicalities such the brand of the oxygen equipment they will use. John then promises that they will meet the rest of the guiding team soon.

"If there's nothing else," John finally concludes, "I will see you tomorrow at our traditional send-off breakfast. I want to remind you again to not go to the international airport tomorrow afternoon; our transport leaves from the army base."

Flights to Lukla for the Everest region depart from Kathmandu's Tribhuvan International Airport. There are far fewer flights to the villages close to Annapurna, and since they want to get straight to Base Camp, a helicopter is the only option.

The group files out of the conference room, serious expressions already thawing in anticipation of a meal and a warm shower, and friendly conversations are sparking up as they walk back to the foyer.

After answering a few more questions, John heads out into the bright Kathmandu sunlight. He begins walking down Leknath Marg towards the Garden of Dreams where the Summit Fever offices are, but before he gets there, his mobile rings and startles him. He's never stayed long enough in Kathmandu to get used to the sound or to bother programming in any numbers; at base camps and higher, only satellite phones tend to work. Everest is, as always, the exception: cell towers have now been installed, allowing the hordes of tourists cluttering up the base camp to Instagram their heart out.

 _It's so good to get out of that hellhole_ , John thinks as he rummages around his down jacket pocket for his phone. "Hello?"

"It's me." Not a lot of people call John, and even if they did, James' greeting would be instantly recognised.

James Sholto founded Summit Fever eleven years ago, at first recruiting left and right to build up a big enough staff pool to provide expeditions to several Himalayan peaks in the firm's very first season. John had been among the first to be hired, with relatively little experience. The next three years he'd worked his arse off as an assistant guide, never losing a client assigned to him—until Annapurna. As the third assistant guide on a climb lead by one of the most experienced guides the firm had, John had been climbing with two Americans who'd just come off triumphant from a K2 summit bid. Maybe surviving the Savage Mountain had made them cocky; when the weather turned terrible just after they had left Camp Four for the summit, John had tried to pull the plug and get everyone to descend. Joe Ballard relented, but his cousin and climbing partner Mark Wick didn't. He physically shoved John aside, and after a tug-of-war over Wick's climbing axe—John had no doubt at all about his judgement call and was willing to do whatever needed to keep everyone safe—the much larger man had eventually managed to recover his axe and push past John on the narrow slope.

That was the last time Mark Wick was seen alive. The _'fuck off'_ he had snarled at John had been the man's last words. His body was found the following Spring, close to where the remains of legendary climber Anatoli Boukreev had been discovered after he'd been swept off that same mountain by an avalanche.

Wick's death had nearly ended John's career as a guide. He'd been younger, more inexperienced, and hadn't yet made his peace with the laws of the mountains. Perhaps he never will. To John, being a mountain guide has felt similar to being a doctor in that one slowly acclimatises to losing people—patients, fellow climbers.

Another similarity is that climbing or being a physician is a lonely lifestyle no one understands unless they share it. On the highest mountains on Earth, success and survival are never guaranteed. No amount of expertise and fancy equipment can save a climber when an avalanche hits, a serac collapses, or illness strikes. In those icy heights, the winds can reach hurricane levels, the cold can be worse than in a deep freezer, and the judgement of the sharpest and most experienced turn to raving madness when hypoxia and high-altitude cerebral oedema kick in.

It's a frozen hell at the threshold of heaven and standing on the summit makes a human feel as though they've cheated god.

"Hey, James. I've just finished the briefing. How are we looking on weather?" John hates his perky tone; it's the one he uses at the office when prospective clients call. It's not him at all, and he isn't sure when he began using it with a man he used to live with and love.

"Valerie is saying clear skies for tomorrow and at least your first practice peak. How's your head?" James has never beat around the bush when it comes to making sure his guides are in the right mindset for heading out. Even just complaining about a bad feeling during a pre-approach trek night out might get them pulled off an assignment. James knows what happened with Mark Wick—he had been at Annapurna Base Camp that week. Back then he still had a hands-on approach to the business. Now, he acts every bit the CEO.

"Head's fine, and it was fine even before meeting the group. No one is making me want to second-guess my decisions." Anyone who doesn't have the right experience will be swiftly kicked out of even preliminary talks of joining an expedition like this, but since only the most serious climbers would even consider Annapurna, John didn't have to veto any prospective candidates out of this endeavour. Since so few people are even familiar with the Annapurna massif, nobody heads there because they want to launch a lucrative motivational speaker career. Not that even Everest guarantees such a thing these days—four thousand people have already stood on its summit.

"Have you seen Mince today?" James asks.

Spencer Hatley, John's Kiwi assistant guide, has been permanently dubbed Mince after asking for mincemeat and Cadbury Eggs when he'd fallen off a serac and gotten a bit concussed during an expedition to Dhaulagiri. He has embraced the name, just like he embraces all things humorous and human. John is fond of the younger man; he's a quirky, kind, meticulous guy John would gladly trust with his life. Not much of a leader, though—doesn't like the limelight. He's the opposite of Valerie, their third guide and weather expert; she has gotten on the bad side of some other head guides for back-talking and loudly disagreeing with them in front of clients. It's alright to argue things and to voice doubts—doing so can save lives—but the way she does it is never diplomatic. Sometimes John wonders why James keeps her on as a guide instead of keeping her at the office. There is her meteorology PhD from Sorbonne—a nice thing to flaunt to prospective clients. There's also the fact that James and Valerie are sleeping together. In fact, Valerie is the person with whom James had replaced John.

His and James' had never been the romance of the century, more of a non-marriage of inconvenience. They're still friends, or so John likes to think when he's having a good day. Many times, when John has been lying alone in the dark in a tent which the mountain is trying its best to shove off, he has wondered why the hell James' thing with Valerie had happened the way it did. Their relationship didn't die a natural death—it was as though suddenly, it had never even existed. The timing of it seemed particularly strange—he and John were supposed to lead an expedition together right after a travel fair in Paris, but James hadn't returned in time, leaving John to shoulder the whole burden. When John returned from Nanga Parbat, Valerie had slotted herself into James' life, and they had moved in together. John's things had been in storage during the expedition; they were supposed to move into a larger place after the expedition.

They never talked about it. For a long time, John had felt that something was festering between them, a black hole getting wider and threatening to swallow up what they had. There was nothing to talk about, it seemed. James had made his choice.

"Mince is returning from Island Peak later today," he tells John. "Wanted to get a head start on acclimatising. Got some marathon-runner grannies from Colorado up there with two guides." James has been trying to get Mince to lead some minor climbs and treks to see if he could be moulded into a proper head guide at some point.

John is still sceptical about his leadership abilities, and they need good assistant guides.

"Anyway, glad to hear we're all set up," James says with a tone that tells John that he'd clap him on the shoulder if they were in the same physical space. "Not why I called, though. I can't meet you up at the office this afternoon since I've got to go sort out the permits—there was a bomb threat to the damned government office earlier, and they closed up shop. No, what I wanted to tell you was that you'll have company in the chopper. We've got a solo climber heading out with you. He'll share the infrastructure and the Sherpa services, but won't be climbing guided."

"Soloing on Annapurna? Who does this guy think he is—the next Ueli Steck?" John scoffs.

Steck was a Swiss climber who had soloed a new route on the south face of the mountain in 28 hours after his climbing partner had decided not to go for the summit that day. And, he'd even done it without supplemental oxygen. Steck is now dead, having fallen during an acclimatising climb on the so-called Hornbein route on Everest.

Serious climbers don't tend to retire. Unless they pull out of the game and contend with reliving their glory days in website interviews and National Geographic documentaries, they push their luck until the mountains take their due.

"You didn't read that feature in Alpinist about the guy who wants to solo all the eight-thousanders without oxygen? He's already done the seven summits and said in the interview that for him it was _child's play_. He did Everest and Kangchenjunga last season."

"Unlike you, I don't memorise the damned mags or web articles. Just say the name, and it might ring a bell." Through the years, there have been plenty of these hotshots, usually young guys after bragging rights for having done something for _the first time_ , and since a lot of the potential stuff has already been done, those pipe dreams get more and more dangerous and gimmicky. Those who don't retreat with their tails between their legs tend to get killed. James has enough fiscal sense to avoid signing these types on as clients, fearing they'll mess up Summit Fever's excellent track record and land the firm in court. The only way James would have said yes to this is if this guy had waved a huge wad of banknotes in front of him and promised to absolve him of all responsibility _and_ promised not to associate himself with the firm publicly if his attempt fails. Regardless, John doesn't like the idea of this guy joining their expedition.

He hears James shuffling papers at the other end. "Name's Holmes. He wants transport, meals and the use of our fixed ropes when available, _if convenient_ , as he put it."

That turn of phrase makes it sounds like the guy wants to reserve judgment on whether John's team even knows how to do basic rope work.

"You won't have to worry about him; he made it very clear that he's self-sufficient," James says.

His carefree tone grates on John's nerves. "You know it isn't that simple," he dismisses.

If a climber gets in trouble, it doesn't matter if they're soloing or climbing with whoever—the ethical code among climbers at least used to be that everyone pitches in to help, unless it entails almost certain death due to extreme weather or going back to the summit when too exhausted after one's own bid for it. The most incredible, death-defying feats of human strength and resilience do not happen during planned summit bids—they occur during desperate attempts to rescue climbers stranded up high. Often, those attempts fail, since the ones being searched for have already succumbed to cold, exhaustion, dehydration and pulmonary and brain oedema. They don't call heights above eight thousand metres from sea level the _Death Zone_ for nothing. Up there, the human body starts shutting down. _Dying_.

"I don't like this," John says plainly. He does now remember reading about this Holmes bloke. The article had quoted someone from an expedition he had been booted out of calling him a _trust fund brat._ The guy's father had been a pretty well-known alpinist in his youth before turning into a bigshot munitions magnate. If John remembers right, Holmes senior had been killed in a drunk-driving accident.

Besides serious-minded explorers, Alpine climbing entices the young and the rich and the idle. Everything else that used to be exotic no longer is—affordable air travel has enabled the masses to flock to the same holiday destinations as the jet set. The summit of Ama Dablam is, for some, the new Biarritz.

John curses as he narrowly avoids stepping on some donkey dung, and an open sewer makes him wrinkle his nose when he crosses the narrow road known as Kanti Path, phone in hand. He both hates and loves Kathmandu. Loves the sight of it after an expedition because it means that he's lived to climb another day but hates it the very next day, longing for the sharp, humbling quiet of the mountains. Out there, without the cushion of civilisation and electric light and insulated houses and indoor plumbing, problems seem smaller, and the blue of the sky is so bright that its vastness feels like the universe is giving him a crushing hug. Only out there, in the ice fields and barren slopes and glaciers, does John feel _alive_.

"You don't have to like this, or like him—since this isn't a very popular climb, we need the extra dough for contingency," James reasons. He should have learned by now that money is not the best argument with John.

"I know. I bet he promised you bragging rights if he summited. You don't do this sort of thing otherwise."

There's an irritated silence at the other end. "Our business is helping people up these damned hills, John, whatever way they want to do it. He didn't even ask who's guiding—I'm sure he won't bother you."

"Maybe he should. Has he attempted Annapurna before?"

"No."

"K2?"

"No."

"Dhaulagiri?"

"Yeah. And Eiger north. And plenty of 9b-rated long Spanish sports routes. He's done the classics, of course: El Cap, Cerro Torre, El Sendero Luminoso. He did the Trango Towers in Pakistan two years ago off-season; that was quite a feat."

"I don't doubt his technical skills. What worries me is that the guy gets booted off expeditions."

"Yeah, there seems to be a wide consensus that he's an arsehole." James chuckles.

"I don't want arseholes on Annapurna."

John hears munching from the opposite end; must be one of James' ever-present protein bars. It's a leftover habit from his climbing days; the only summiting he does nowadays seems to be climbing on top of Valerie Marcel.

"Arsehole's got the money."

"That isn't worth shit up there. Can't buy you your life back."

"John, I know you're worried because it's An---"

"If you were guiding this, _you'd_ be worried."

"You got this. He isn't your responsibility."

Out there, everyone is everyone's responsibility. Having sat in a cushy, air-conditioned office with lunches at MEZZE by Roadhouse instead of trying to drink tea melted from snow without vomiting from altitude sickness, James' priorities have shifted. He has employees whose wages he needs to pay, and John is one of them.

Usually, it doesn't bother John to risk his life in service of Summit Fever; it's his choice, and James has given him a good life. But, he's got a bad feeling about this. One he shouldn't probably ignore. "Can I at least call him up tonight?"

"Why?" James' tone sends a clear message: the decision is made. "He did promise to attend the breakfast tomorrow. You can have a word then."

It's a Summit Fever tradition: all the staff currently in Kathmandu assemble for breakfast with an outgoing expedition on the morning of their departure.

"Alright." Maybe the magazine had just wanted a juicy story. Holmes couldn't have done all that he has if he weren't an exceptional climber and having done several eight-thousanders already means that he can acclimatise. Maybe he will accept a few words of advice from someone who's been to Annapurna before.  
  


======================  
AUTHOR'S NOTES FOR CHAPTER 1  
======================

 **Mount Everest** —in Nepalese known as Sagarmatha and in Chinese known as Chomolungma—is Earth’s highest mountain measured from sea level. Everest is not the most difficult mountain in the world to climb by far—it doesn’t require as outstanding technical climbing skills as K2 does, and it’s not as avalanche-prone as Annapurna I. But climbing _any_ eight-thousander will carry a significant risk of death. The reasons for this will be discussed in detail later. Most climbers attempt the summit from the Nepalese side, but the Chinese side is becoming more popular due to cheaper permits.

Everest [IS crowded](http://www.bbc.com/future/story/20151008-the-graveyard-in-the-clouds-everests-200-dead-bodies), and the morale and behaviour of the climbing community there have begun to deteriorate seriously. An excellent account of the Everest circus is Michael Kodas' book [High Crimes – The Fate of Everest in An Age of Greed](https://www.amazon.com/High-Crimes-Fate-Everest-Greed/dp/1401309844). Expeditions have ended up fighting over the right to use the fixed ropes, and there are traffic jams up in the Death Zone threatening the lives of everyone trying to get to the summit. It’s a huge financial and human burden on bigger commercials expeditions to help lone climbers who try to summit without enough skills, experience, and equipment. No wonder our John’s so grumpy about the whole thing. There’s also [a massive waste management problem](https://phys.org/news/2018-06-mount-everest-high-altitude-rubbish-dump.html). Here’s another [article on it with a bunch of photographic evidence](https://www.dailymail.co.uk/sciencetech/article-5852843/Mount-Everest-high-altitude-rubbish-dump.html). Even though the prices for climbing permits have soared to astronomical heights, there are still hundreds and hundreds of hopefuls flocking to the mountain every year, and the large numbers of trekkers travelling to and fro the Basecamp are making the pollution problem much worse. [Here’s what it’s like to reach the summit](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NhBzhi9jPFs).

 **Rum Doodle**  is a Kathmandu bar the namesake of which was a favourite haunt of serious explorers for a long time and remains a popular place to assemble before a climbing expedition.  **Hotel Yambu**  is also a real Kathmandu establishment.

 **Annapurna I** is a mountain peak that belongs to the Annapurna Massif ( **massif**  = a geological term for a section of a planet's crust that is demarcated by faults or flexures). Annapurna I is the tenth highest mountain on earth at 8091 metres above sea level. It was the first eight-thousander to be climbed, and one of the climbers, Maurice Herzog, wrote a brilliant and harrowing account of it called [Annapurna: First Conquest of an 8000-meter Peak](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Annapurna_\(book\)). The peak has the highest fatality rate out of all the 14 mountains on Earth reaching above 8000 metres: 34 deaths per 100 safe returns. Legendary Kazakh Russian climber Anatoli Boukreev is among those lost on the mountain.

 **Ueli Steck** was a real climber, famous for his speed records, and for the fact that he climbed without a group or a partner for most of his significant achievements. His third attempt to summit on the Lafaille route on Annapurna I resulted in what has been dubbed "one of the most impressive Himalayan climbs in history". Steck died on Everest when he fell to his death from 300 metres below the summit. In his lifetime, he won many of the most significant awards such as the Piolet d'Or, the Eiger Award and the Karl Unterkircher Award. Here's [Steck at Les Drus](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tT3hyLvYNNo).

 **Cho Oyu** is one of the easier eight-thousanders and a popular first for that reason. Its death rate is only 0,65 %.

 **Seven Summits** is a somewhat popular extreme climbing challenge. It entails climbing the highest mountains of all the continents, including Mount Vinson on Antarctica.

 **Sherpas** are an Ethnic group native to most mountainous areas of Nepal, and certain areas of Bhutan, China, India and other Himalayan regions. They are famous for the mountaineering prowess and are well acclimatised to living at altitude. No major climbing expedition in Nepal happens without them. They are Buddhist.

 **A jumar** is a climbing device that grips a fixed rope. It’s a type of ascender.

 **Technical climbing** in the context of mountain climbing means that a particular section or route involves a rope and some means of protection, as opposed to just scrambling or glacier travel. While ropes are needed for all eight-thousanders, the ones that are referred to as being more “technical” than others require using proper rock climbing techniques instead of just walking up slopes with the help of fixed ropes and a jumar. Everest has technical bits, but it hardly rivals, say, K2 as a technically demanding climb.

 **Kangchenjunga** is another eight-thousander (the third highest) with an impressive enough death rate of one in five climbers perishing.

 **Dhaulagiri** = guess what, it’s yet ANOTHER eight-thousander! Looks like I was trying to cram ‘em all into this chapter, doesn’t it? *laughs* Dhaulagiri I is the seventh highest mountain on Earth. The first climbers to succeed in reaching the summit of Annapurna I first wanted to try Dhaulagiri but retreated, judging it to be impossible.

 **Island Peak** is a mountain in Nepal popular with less experienced climbers. It's more of a trek than a climb, but the term "trekking peak", as used by the Nepalese government, does NOT mean that all designated as such are easy walks up snow slopes. In fact, some of Nepal's so-called trekking peaks are very difficult climbs. Their only unifying feature seem to be cheaper permits.

 **HAPE** = high-altitude pulmonary oedema. We’ll get to this later, and **HACE** which is high-altitude cerebral oedema, will also be discussed.

 **K2** , aka The Savage Mountain, is the second-highest mountain in the world. Even the frighteningly inexperienced hopefuls who flock to Everest know how to steer clear of this one. Getting there requires a gruelling 80-kilometre trek, it has a very narrow weather window for ascents, and no successful winter ascents have been made. About one in four climbers die trying to summit it. It gets extreme storms lasting days, all the routes are outstandingly exposed, and it is a technically very demanding peak to negotiate.

A **serac** is a pinnacle, block or column of ice on the surface of a glacier. They can topple with little warning. The lowest part of the Nepal side approach to Everest’s summit is called the Khumbu Icefall, and it’s full of these. Many climbers have described the Icefall as definitely one of the most frightening bits of the project. [Here’s a hair-raising taster of it](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=q4Kw7GlZcHM).

 **Ama Dablam** might well be [one of the prettiest mountains in the world](https://wanderthehimalayas.files.wordpress.com/2017/09/p1678563720-4.jpg).

The north face of **Eiger** , a peak in the Alps, is a formidably challenging and risky climb. The other routes James lists are long, technically outstandingly difficult rock climbing routes. **9b** in rock climbing classifications is a mind-bogglingly difficult grade to manage. Here's [Adam Ondra on Britain’s most difficult climbing route, Rainman](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TkdGK0d8iOk).  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now that we have a lot of the basics covered, we can crack on with our boys' planning their expedition. In future author's notes we'll discuss (among other things) acclimatisation and high-altitude medicine.
> 
> Here's [part one of my behind-the-scenes tumblr ramblings](http://jbaillier.tumblr.com/post/178607031970/now-that-chapter-1-of-the-fic-is-go-i-am-going-to).


	2. The Illustrious Client

 

>  
> 
> "Climbing today is not only mainstream, it is business, and with that comes the rising tendency for climbing decisions—objectives as well as tactical decisions on a climb—to be business decisions."
> 
> _– Christian Beckwith in the American Alpine Journal in 1997  
>    
>  _

 

John is the last to arrive at the Laughing Yak Café & Restaurant; roadworks had forced him to take a detour, and there had been some last-minute preparations to sort out such as various medications that will form their expedition pharmacy. Thankfully, James hadn't sounded annoyed when John had called him to ask him to meet up with their clients at the eatery. Perhaps James would have attended, anyway—he's proud of his business and wants to add a personal touch by meeting all who have decided to give him their more or less hard-earned cash. James is not a breakfast person, so he usually pops in towards the end of the welcome meal, whereas John tends to keep the same habits regardless of whether he's out in the wilderness or the city. He can't function without a good breakfast.

It's oppressively hot in Kathmandu today, and exhaust fumes have draped the city in a shroud of transparent grey. John's wrinkled olive green linen shirt already sports impressive sweat spots under his armpits, and droplets are running down his temples. Stepping into the café, the blasting wind from its ceiling fans feels cooling but only momentarily, since they are just circulating heated air mixed in with the aroma of burning grease.

Half of his clients have already received plates of baked beans, fried eggs, hash browns, grilled tomatoes and, of course, banana pancakes—the cargo cult dish ubiquitous everywhere in Asia nowadays.

James meanders to John between the tables, gives him a firm handshake, then claps a palm on his shoulder. "Big day, huh, John my boy?"

He hates it when James calls him that. Their age difference is only a few years. Valerie has bloated the man's head about being the boss.

John forces on a smile. "Yeah, sure. We all here?"

"Well, we've got your six and Mince, and Val's in the loo, but we've still missing Holmes. Better show up, eh, put your mind at ease? Grab a plate."

John takes over the last seat on the bench against the wall. The cafe is well-lit and more garishly decorated than the more indigenous restaurants in Thamel; the ugly red ceiling lamps look like Christmas decorations. It's as genuinely Nepalese as a Hilton, and the sort of generic outfit John would assume bigger trekking companies to frequent; if he were the one to choose, they'd have taken their clients for local fare at a family-owned place outside the tourist trail. That's the sort of service they'd talked about in the early days of Summit Fever—being the real deal, introducing their clients to Nepalese culture, offering a more boutique experience than the big firms. Now, James has turned it all into standard glossy brochures, and PR-firm designed Travel Fair booths and cappuccino machines at the office. At least reality hits every pampered Westerner James signs on when the comforts of Kathmandu have been left behind, and they're pitching tents in a sleet storm.

Before tucking into his hash browns, John says a silent thanks to the universe for this group he's about to lead—none of them will expect anything else than what they've already experienced negotiating some of the world's most treacherous mountains. These are not Spring breakers wanting to drudge up Island Peak as a bucket list item on a tour of Asia.

Sometimes John feels terribly old; a cynic who has fallen off the bandwagon of where mountain climbing seems to be heading like an unstoppable, errant freight train. What's next, when the world's mountain ranges have turned into package holidays? A casino at the bottom of the Mariana Trench?

He's startled to notice James watching him from where the man is standing across the narrow table, leaning his palms on the backrest of an empty chair. James points quickly at the side of his mouth to demonstrate the forced, unpleasant grin he has forced on. _Smile, John_ , is what he's saying.

 _Fuck you_ , John wants to reply.

At least the banana pancakes are good.

He starts making small talk with the guests, asking how they've slept and where they've last climbed—easy and not too personal. In the middle of Al's story about his disastrous house renovation project in Colorado, the small brass bells hanging from the door tingle.

A man enters the cafe. Unlike the rest of the group who are wearing casual clothes, the tall, lithe arrival is wearing black suit trousers and a burgundy dress shirt. His posture is slightly stiff and wary as he surveys the interior, shielding his eyes from the sunlight glaring in straight into his face from a side window. His blackish curls look as though he's just walked out of a hairdresser appointment; there must be a handful of product in there.

_Must be a businessman looking for a quiet place for his morning coffee._

John begins to shift his gaze away, having lost interest. But, his fork halts in mid-air when James suddenly makes his way to the door and extends his hand to the man. James then leads him straight to their table and points at the only chair still available—the one across from John.

"Mister Holmes, this is John Watson, the leader of our Annapurna project for this Spring," James declares.

"My father was _Mister_ _Holmes_. I prefer Sherlock," is the quick, aloof reply.

John drags himself to his feet, the narrow space between the table and the bench forcing him to stay slightly hunched over as he extends his hand. "John," he repeats needlessly.

Their eyes meet, and John instantly feels like he's being measured up. Every client he meets studies the sight of him, of course, trying to pass judgement on whether he's the right man for the job they've hired him for, but that had been nothing compared to how intensely these piercing eyes are raking across every bit of him. Analysing. Scrutinising. Dismissing?

John should be doing the same, but he finds himself caught off kilter. He hates the way he's suddenly aware of the scruffiness of his beard, the state of his worn clothes, and the contrast to this man's designer outfit and James' hiking wear that remains untarnished by actual hiking.

John tries to be proud that he at least looks the part of a mountain climber right now—Holmes certainly doesn't. _What was it they called him? Trust fund brat? He looks more like an investment banker than a climber._

All in all, John might admit to himself that Sherlock Holmes, with his male model build, his oddly coloured eyes, that downright indecent Cupid's bow and those goddamned curls look a sight for sore eyes, but what would be the point?

Finally, after he has already begun to feel like an idiot hovering his palm in mid-air, it is caught in a tight grip of long, delicate fingers with apparent calluses. _Well, that proves he's scaled a cliff or two_.

"A pleasure," Sherlock Holmes says and sounds the opposite.

James, as is his jovial and irritating habit, now claps his palm on Holmes' bony-looking shoulder. The man flinches before leaning slightly away to glance up the offending arm pinning him in place.

"John here wanted to get to know you a bit before he shares a chopper and a camp with you."

John here has now gone a bit red in the face, angry at James for sounding so condescending.

"I suppose it is reasonable," Holmes says coldly, "Though he should not worry about having to babysit me." He is now giving a sweeping, pointed glance around the other climbers.

His comment gathers some curious and suspicious glances from the others. The Brit sitting next to him introduces himself as Peter Lowe, to which Holmes— _Sherlock_ —merely raises his brows and then turns to face John again.

"Ask so that we can get this over with." Holmes waves away the menu James is trying to give him.

"Ask what?"

"Whatever it is you're currently thinking about. I can read it on your face that you're going through things you've heard about me."

James retreats to the bar after giving John an encouraging wink.

"I don't follow the press much. James told me what you've climbed before, that's mostly it."

"Your _mention_ of the press means that you're aware I have appeared in media. How is it that not even someone with _your_ track record has never been interviewed for The Alpinist or any of the Everest websites?"

"I don't think the media does much good for the sport. I don't want to build a name for myself; I just want to do some real climbing," John defends himself.

"Interesting. How does escorting old ladies up trekking peaks as part of an agency that's obviously seeking to start catering to the bigger masses fit such an aspiration?"

 _No, it really doesn't fit that description_. Maybe Holmes has some sense, after all. "You don't approve?" John asks, trying to sound nonchalant.

"I've seen what it's like on Everest. Any climber who needs seven Sherpas, a reality TV show and three yaks' worth of beauty supplies as opposed to carrying their own gear and achieving the summit _on their own_ , is a gold-digger after bragging rights, not a proper climber."

"Ah. I take it you were there at the same time as Hester Macaulay?" Even though John doesn't watch television, he has heard the stories about the insanity at base camp brought on by the filming of yet another Everest-scaling reality show, this one starring a diva of an actress who eventually failed even to reach camp three.

"You have no idea what it was like," Holmes says, and performs an Olympic-grade eye roll. "Such idiots risk their lives and are not even aware of doing so."

John purses his lips and shoves a forkful of egg into his mouth, nodding. He swallows and takes a sip of his tea. "Well, some people say that soloing without supplemental oxygen is excessive risk-taking. There's quite a massive gap between an inexperienced hopeful making use of the services of a trekking company, and what you do."

"My way is the logical way to do this. Not everyone can achieve such things, of course."

"Very few people could summit any eight-thousander even _with_ bottled oxygen. You've been lucky so far to do so well."

"That statement is a contradiction."

"How so?"

"Luck factors only into weather and avalanche conditions, and even with those patterns can be predicted with modern equipment. Nearly all risks can be anticipated and assessed; whether they become a reality is the only luck-related aspect. Everything else is about physical fitness, having the right gear and the right mentality. Not depending on someone else is a big part of that mental conditioning."

"A good climbing partner and a good expedition leader often keep people alive."

"Too many people on the mountain mean tempers flaring up, distractions, traffic jams and the risk of having to waste energy and time and a good summit window to rescue some underprepared idiot."

"Even well-prepared climbers can get stricken with altitude sickness or something else up there."

Holmes shrugs. "I've never had any problems. Those who find themselves constantly battling health issues when climbing should, of course, stay home."

John gapes, his temper flaring over. "So, you think the summit is your birthright, and everyone else should just fuck off?"

"If they can't do it on their own, without cheating with oxygen and Sherpas cheerleading them upwards, _yes, they bloody well should stay off the mountains_. And trekking companies should stop enabling them."

 _No wonder this guy's been booted off numerous expeditions._ John does agree with many of his points, but what Holmes seems to fail to understand is that not everything can be controlled in the mountains; John has seen people get hurt in avalanches, in a freak tent fire, develop appendicitis and more than a few times, get struck with HAPE even though they'd seemed to acclimatise with ease. "Anyone can become a liability up there, and it's a measure of what sort of people we are how we deal with that. We do what we can to help, not just chase our own success."

"No one should climb expecting rescue if they get into trouble."

"You wouldn't think that if that person needing help was you," John says ominously and just loudly enough to rouse the attention of some of the others. Making Holmes' opinions known to them will sow dissent, which isn't good, but a part of John is so appalled by this that he wants everyone to be aware that he doesn't approve.

"Alone protects me."

"Alone is what'll get you fucking killed one day."

"We all die, but some of us will do it with a little more integrity than others."

James picks this very moment to return to the table, phone in hand. He clears his throat, and eight pairs of eyes fix on him. "No alterations to transport schedules. Once you've eaten, do your final gear inventories, your hotel checkouts, your temple round, and we'll see you at the airfield at two in the afternoon."

He then disappears out of the door with a swift stride.

John wants to run after him and veto Holmes out of the expedition, but deep down he knows it had just been a courtesy thing from James to invite Holmes to breakfast so that they could meet. There's no way James would throw him out now, judging by his behaviour today. 

John finishes his plate without saying a word. Holmes does eventually order a large coffee, and instead of saying another word, he fiddles with an expensive smartphone while studiously ignoring John. Then, he uncoils his long limbs from the chair and walks out.

John watches him disappear into the crowd outside, trying to shake his irritation to no avail. It would be so much easier if he could think like James: that a deal is a deal, and Holmes is on his own apart from using their camp infrastructure and some ropes.

But, making that decision to leave the man to his own devices out there would mean shunning the principle that John has always thought of as inviolable. Would _he_ have the courage to climb, if he didn't know his team would be there for him if something bad happened?

No. Holmes is _wrong_.

 _Let's hope Annapurna teaches him a lesson_ , John broods angrily and instantly hates himself a little for such a mean thought.  


-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-

 

After the clients have headed back to their hotels to finish packing, John decides to make a head start for Pashupathinath Temple. He wants a moment for himself before slipping into his professional role for so many weeks. Only the outer areas of the temple complex are open to non-Hindu visitors, but John prefers it to many other temples since it's quieter than those frequented by tourists. 

So, he Tootles himself a ride. The new, motorcycle-based ride-hailing app has been serving him well; during rush hour it gets him around much more reliably than taxis or Tempos—Kathmandu's oversized auto-rickshaws.

Thin morning fog is still hanging on the streets outside the city centre as his driver zips past shanty blocks, temples and business complexes. Unlike cars, motorcycles are allowed to drive up the approach lane to the large temple they're heading to, so John gets deposited right in front of the main entrance.

Locals, trekkers, tourists and climbers are trailing in through the gates, mixing into a colourful crowd of hoping for a blessing for their journey forth or hectic days in the Nepalese capital. Small shops and stalls are selling prayer flags, trinkets, and small pieces of paper to be tied into a string to flutter in the wind that's supposed to take the words up to the sky gods.

John ignores the touts, the child beggars, and the peddlers of shoestring-budget trekking services who frequent the area, and heads to the wall of prayer wheels in the courtyard.

All of their clients, as seasoned Himalayan climbers, will likely visit a temple before their departure—except for one.

"I read an interview where Holmes says he is sickened by what he called 'cargo-cult pseudo-Buddhist superstition' of climbers, and that visiting a temple before Everest is just a tourist trap," Hakon, the Norwegian guy had told John while lingering by the counter as John paid for their breakfasts with his Summit Fever Amex. "He thinks climbers are irresponsible to think that anything else than their own skills guarantees success in summiting."

John is not surprised that Holmes would have an abrasive opinion on _everything_ climbing-related. 

"He does not climb with us, does he?" the Japanese climber, Yunko Ito, had piped in. Her English sounds very forced and has a heavy accent; she had stayed silent during most of the meal.

"No, he won't. We'll see him at meals, he'll share fixed ropes, and he might use the higher camps, but we're not guiding him. He's on the same permit, that's all," John had assured her.

There's a gap in the morning crowd that allows him to get close enough to the prayer wheels. He lays his palm on a gilded, intricately carved one and sends it spinning. The air is thick with incense and the scent of the yellow flowers the name of which he always forgets.

He isn't religious, never has been, but something about the ritual of asking for protection before shedding the safety of human civilisation appeals to him. He's throwing himself at the mercy of the Earth, and even if this is nothing but a quiet moment to appreciate the gravity of that choice, so be it. It's not rational, wanting to the climb. It's not logical, being English yet feeling like the mountain ranges in the far corners of the world have always been his real home. It's not rational to risk one's life for the adrenaline and for the beauty and for the sense of achievement, but what else is there?

In fact, ' _what else is there_ ' has always been the key question for John. After medical school, he had signed up for speciality training in Emergency Medicine, considering perhaps signing up for some volunteer work abroad once he'd gained some training and experience. A few years of writing up ortho referrals for the bunions of Knightsbridge socialites, battling with Aldgate junkies over oxy prescriptions, and trying to get middle-aged men with metabolic syndromes and smoking habits to take their cholesterol medications is not why he'd wanted to be a doctor. He wanted to...Truth be told, he didn't even know what he wanted, not really. He wanted something that would be... _more_. Something that would make him want to forget about money, about working hours, about bureaucracy. Something that would make the rest of his life seem a bit more exciting than doing the same thing over and over again for God-knows-how-many years.

Then, his sister convinced him to fly to Nepal for a holiday, and he got his first glimpse of the Himalayas from the plane window. He hadn't been out of Britain before; as foster kids, fancy holidays hadn't been lavished on them. John worked his way through medical school, but Harry had never had much of a head for academia. She has always been an athlete through and through, and a program she was forced to enrol in her teens for juvenile delinquents had introduced her to indoor wall climbing. She worked for local climbing gyms and eventually began scaling outdoor cliffs. She was talented and determined, and once her domestic climbing endeavours began to garner enough attention to gain sponsors, she put the Alps in her sights. Soon, she was pioneering routes when she wasn't working as a guide and climbing instructor. First, the Alps, then South America, then Nepal.

"You have _got_ to see this place, John—you're wasting your time in Manchester," Harry had told him on the phone once, after hearing him complain about work and Manchester and the weather for the thousandth time.

He bought a plane ticket to Kathmandu, and never went back.

Harry, however, did return to their native soil after a fall into a crevasse snapped her femur into two and her tibia into shards. She can still climb, but not on a professional level. Not big walls. Not demanding technical routes up mountains. She's a physical therapist, now, living in Edinburgh with a Clara Levinson who she'd met at the hospital in which she works. She has settled down, while John finds himself more unsettled than ever.

He's got a good life and a good job that lets his climb, even if it's not on his own terms. Even if he is growing increasingly disgruntled with James' way of running things, where else would he go? He's living the dream, isn't he—someone else is paying him to scale eight-thousanders, even if it is with clients?

John has been thinking about writing. Or taking up photography. Plenty of people will never get to experience these mountains first-hand, so sharing his experiences through a book or some beautiful photographs would be nice. But, what would he write about? There are plenty of mountain guides with a similar track record to his. What makes him so unique that someone would care about what he has to say? His sceptical opinions on the state of the climbing world are hardly unique—the really big names like Ed Viesturs have been saying the same for years—and no publisher would probably be keen on the ramblings of a cynic.

Sending the last of the prayer wheels spinning, John tells himself he really should learn to count his blessings.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thamel is a commercial neighbourhood in Kathmandu, and the centre of the city’s tourism industry.
> 
> Island Peak (Imja Tse) is an easy-to-climb, popular six-thousander peak in Nepal. Climbing it takes usually about 20 days. It’s only 10 kilometres from Mount Everest.
> 
> Cabin Pressure fans may spot a reference in this chapter…
> 
> Supplemental oxygen is a controversial topic in mountain climbing. Purists think that serious climbers should go without, others argue that it’s a potentially life-saving way to level up the playing field for humans in an environment where the partial pressure of oxygen in the atmosphere is too low to sustain life. Oxygen administration is an important first aid to many issues one may encounter when climbing. We shall discuss oxygen and its delivery systems more later.
> 
> HAPE = high-altitude pulmonary oedema. A potentially lethal form of altitude sickness. It’s caused by the low oxygen pressure which causes pulmonary blood vessels to constrict. This raises the pressure in those vessels, leading more fluid to be squeezed through into tissues, worsened by the fact that, through a yet-not-very-well-understood mechanism, the cells in the blood vessels walls become leakier. HAPE is a life-threatening condition without prompt treatment, the most important parts of which are oxygen administration and quickly taking the patient to a lower altitude.
> 
> Fixed ropes = ropes attached to the route and left in place permanently or for the duration of an expedition. In commercial expeditions it is often the guides and the sherpas who put these in place.
> 
> Big wall climbing = rock climbing on routes which can’t be done on a single “sitting”, requiring multiple pitches of rope and even spending the night suspended on the route. El Capitan just might be the most famous Big Wall route in the world.
> 
> Ed Viesturs is a legendary climber who remains the only American to have climbed all eight-thousanders, and the fifth in the world to have done so without supplemental oxygen.
> 
> Technical climbing = in mountaineering, this means climbing that requires the use of rope and most likely also cams and bolts and pitons to attach the rope to as protection, as opposed to just scrambling or glacier hiking. In rock climbing, the term means climbing requiring the climber to create attachment for the rope in the rock using a rack of equipment he/she carries up with them; sports climbing happens when there are permanent bolts on the route, and toproping means hanging a rope from an anchor at the top of the route. I used to sports climb and toprope before I accepted the fact that I was crap at it and quit.
> 
> I want to thank reader Haruhi_Suzumiya for some excellent local pointers!


	3. Into The Sanctuary

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter requires [a soundtrack](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jRHERPtxatQ).

> _"Climb the mountain not to plant your flag, but to embrace the challenge, enjoy the air and behold the view. Climb it so you can see the world, not so the world can see you."_  
>  – David McCullough  
>    
> 

  
John adjusts his headset as the rotors begin spinning. When he's certain no part of his ears are pinched between the tight ear muffs and his head, he clicks through the selector to the right channel. A quick glance around the cramped passenger compartment confirms that everyone is accounted for, and all seatbelts have been strapped in.

"We're all set back here."

The pilot extends his arm backwards to give him a thumbs-up, them reaches up to flick a few switches.

John has never been afraid of flying but rising from the airfield to high above the plateau Kathmandu is perched atop, then seeing farmland turning into foothills, then ragged peaks far underneath always gives him a sense of unease. He likes a bit of solid ground underneath his feet, even if it's just a steep, snow-covered slope.

The helicopter used to belong to the army, but despite shoestring budgeting, they try to keep their gear new since it's put through its paces assisting with high-altitude rescues. These older, trusty machines are sold off, and if well-maintained, they are excellent for less risky transport such as flying climbers from Kathmandu to the Annapurna region. Summit Fever has been using this smaller, Nepalese-owned transport firm for most of its existence, and John has nothing but good things to say about them. Maybe the pilots' English skills could be better but it's a foreign country, after all—they get by.

At first, the landscape below consists of soft-contoured green hills with small farms and houses. Gradually, Kathmandu becomes just a mist-shrouded mirage far away. In the opposite direction, bare ridges of the southern edge of the Himalaya embrace the cloud cover which looks as though it's hanging low. Everything is relative—this is the roof of the world. The green below is nearly garishly bright since it's early Springtime, and the sight makes John's chest constrict with awe.

They won't get to enjoy such a vibrant colour for long, since their expedition month will be spent firmly in the hostile, barren realm of snow, rock and ice.

A protein bar lands on John's lap, followed by similar ones being tossed by Valerie to everyone else. She tears off the end of her own, then throws a second one at Sherlock who is shoving the first into the pocket of his down jacket.

"You should bulk up, _skinny English boy_ , otherwise there'll be nothing left of you after the mountain," Valerie's mocking soprano comes through the radio.

On the phone, just before they'd left for the airfield, James had said that Holmes had gotten on the Frenchwoman's bad side the minute he'd set foot in the Summit office two days earlier. Valerie can certainly be abrasive and combined with Holmes' acerbic wit the combination must have been volatile.

"Val tried to veto him off the expedition," James had laughed, "Told him the same as I told you—not your responsibility."

It had been too late to argue about that; John had been eager to get off the phone to do the last check of his personal gear. Shoving his things back into his backpack, John had gritted his teeth in annoyance—Valerie had had more balls than him, telling James that Holmes should be taken off the trip. And, it's not a relief at all that she hadn't been able to turn the boss' head, either.

 _She'll probably watch him like a hawk, now_ , John reasons as he watches Holmes turning the protein bar slowly in his fingers, frowning. He then gives Valerie an angry glance, but the Frenchwoman has already shifted her attention to the scenery outside.

Holmes turns his head to look out of the window as well, and since John is sitting next to the door, their eyes meet briefly. John spots something odd, something unexpected in the man's gaze—it disappears so quickly that it's hard to tell whether it had been apprehension, embarrassment, or hurt. Without delay, it's replaced with a mask of carefully curated, cold indifference, and Holmes averts his gaze. It's obvious he hadn't expected for anyone to notice.

Their group is sitting in two rows opposite each other, and the rest are already mesmerised by the sight of the approaching white peaks in the distance. John joins in the fun.

The sight that greets him never gets old. It's hard to imagine the geological power that has created the sharp edges of the world's highest mountain range. The mountains in the British Isles are low and softly shaped, eroded by thousands of years of wind and water into rounded–up shapes like pebbles on a beach. Here, in contrast, the ground is still rising as the Indian and Eurasian plates are forced into an infinite battle for space. One plate melts under the pressure, the magma forming the volcanoes down south; the other is being forced up into these peaks caressing the skies. Drape-like snowbanks cover them where the slopes aren't too steep only to house ice or barren rock.

Most of the more famous Himalayan peaks stand alone, guarding glaciers and canyons far below, but some of the highest peaks are more of a range than a singular mountain—Annapurna among them. Many have made orienteering mistakes on such mountains, thinking they had reached the summit when they'd only stopped at a lower spot. Annapurna is a female Sanskrit name, meaning _She Who Stands Replete with Food_. The prize they are after is Annapurna I, the highest bit of the massif, reaching up to 8091 metres.

Usually, approaching the climb by air lands climbers in Pokhara, a small city known as the gateway to the popular trekking destination of the Annapurna Sanctuary, but John and his group will head straight down to Base Camp at the foot of the mountain. The helicopter flight takes only about fifty minutes.

"How's everyone doing?" John asks into the aged microphone set. He gets a round of smiles and thumbs-up in reply. Holmes is the only one who doesn't even look at him, opting instead to watch the scenery through the window at the opposite end of the helicopter.

"A-okay, Johnny," Mince replies cheerily. He's got a new pair of shades on with distinct, red lenses. John has not seen the New Zealander many times without his sunglasses on.

"Fine, John," Valerie replies sunnily. "Weather looks as good as they promised."

John digs out his writing pad. After jotting down a few words, he passes it to her, keeping what he'd written hidden from everyone else.

' _Holmes looking alright_?' is what the message says. He's making a point by making Valerie to be the one to check; John needs everyone to get along and this is a reminder that he's still their client, that she needs to play nice.

Valerie shrugs, and then passes the pad to Holmes.

John bristles. That's _not_ what he'd meant!

With a patrician brow hitched up to crown a bored expression, Holmes scrutinizers the message, then flashes John a caustic smile and gives him a mocking double thumbs-up before tossing the pad back.

John sighs and throws himself against his seat.

The radio system rattles into life again.

"I'm not here to sing bloody Kumbayah with the lot of you. You let me be, and I let you do your thing. _Deal_?" Holmes' voice demands, loud and clear.

He is looking straight at John.

 _What the fuck is this guy's problem?_ Would it hurt to have at least someone in the group who would hesitate at least for a second to leave him on the mountain if he got into trouble? If Holmes really thinks he's the bee's knees of Alpine sports, why is he deliberately acting the antithesis of all that has been regarded as holy gospel in this trade when it comes to ensuring that everyone comes back in one piece?

John decides not to reply. He has a hunch that Holmes won't be happy when, after they've had a few days to recoup at Base Camp, he'll have to invoke one of James' rules: everyone, even independent climbers, have to prove they have the technical climbing skills necessary for the task ahead. Sensible veterans will understand why no guide should take anyone's bragging about their skills at face value; it's only cocky up-and-comers who would protest. John is curious to see Holmes in action, but the guy just might decline the whole demonstration, and what could John do, then? He could hardly chain him to a rock and tell him not to climb.

Once again, he tries to think it's Holmes' funeral and he shouldn't care, but it doesn't work like that.

_It will never work like that._

If John judged summit conditions wrong, if he got stranded up there trying to help someone, if he lost a vital piece of equipment of got hit with mountain sickness, he wouldn't want anyone to think that since going up there was his choice, he should be left to his own devices.

_Nobody goes up there to die._

Summit fever can certainly make people make foolhardy decisions, but when push comes to shove, survival becomes the imperative. Everyone wants to get down alive, don't they?

There won't be another Mark Wick. Never again will John let someone's bad judgment let them get killed on his watch if he can help it. James may worry that this attitude might make him take unnecessary risks regarding his own safety, but surely there must be a balance between doing everything he can and not signing his own death sentence?

 

-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-

 

"We've reserved fuel for a run to Pokhara, if there is something vital that someone's left behind, but this is a one-time deal. There will be no transport back before the end of the expedition unless it's for medical reasons. Is that clear?" John asks.

The heads of his clients are swiveling around, the magnificant scenery at Base Camp demanding their attention, but eventually John gets a round of nods.

"Please go through your checklists now."

He digs out his own version, one he'd written years ago and laminated after he had to keep jotting down new versions of it since the paper versions got so worn even after just one trip.

 _Crampons_ , _ice axes, trad climbing rack, prusik rope, climbing harness, three different sets of ATCs, trekking poles, jumaris, hiking boots, insulated booties for sleeping, high-altitude double boots, chemical foot and hand warmer packs, heavy baselayer, midlayer top, first and second balaclava layers, helmet, softshell and hardshell pants and jackets, insulated down parkas in two different altitude ratings, expedition down pants, liner and softshell gloves, shell gloves, heavy expedition mittens, sunhat, facemask, oxygen mask, ski goggles, headlamps, water purification tools, two different altitude sleeping bags, climbing backpacks, inflatable sleeping and insulator pads, cutlery, pee bottle, thermos, water bottles, trash compactor bags...._

On top of all that come regular travel items such as regular clothes for hanging out at Base Camp, books, laptop for paperwork, satellite phone, all the medical gear John needs as an expedition physician, cutlery and mug and a plastic plate.

Valerie is in charge of communications and their weather station, the Sherpas who are meeting them at base camp are responsible for tents and food, and Mince is the gear specialist who will sort out the ropes everyone will be using, make sure belay devices work perfectly as are other carabiner systems, and making sure there are spares for everything. Mince is good at it and John trusts him fully, just as he does Valerie. He doesn't have to like her, but he _can_ work with her.  

 

-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-

 

The next morning, John kicks off his sleeping bag in a good mood. He's already slightly sweaty which must mean that the weather down in the valley should be good at least for the start of the day.

His watch reads eight a.m.; a luxuriously late sleep-in for a climber. Summit bids can start as early as two in the morning, depending on the mountain and whether one is setting off from base camp for a quick, alpine-style jaunt up and then back down, or for a more staged approach from a higher camp.

He is well-rested—the quiet, the crisp air and the sense of being back where he belongs had lulled him into a deep sleep. He had spent such a short period in Kathmandu that the acclimatization he'd achieved during his last assignment still helps him cope with the altitude at this level without feeling the early symptoms of altitude sickness. He usually gets a headache rather easily when going higher up.

The night freeze means heavy condensation on everything; after lacing into his hiking boots John uses his shirtsleeve to wipe his handheld mirror so that he can check how desperately he's due for a shave. Anything less than half a centimetre is negligible; this is not a beauty contest.

 _Or, maybe I should rethink that idea_ , he thinks when he zips open his tent, toothbrush in hand, just as his new next-door neighbour walks past. It's Holmes, looking like he's got a get-out-of-jail-free card when it comes to pillow hair and sleeping bag sweat. He's dressed in a black thermal long-sleeved shirt and wind breaker trousers that have no right being as tight as they are—they look downright bespoke.

The man does look tired, though.

 _Rough night?_ The last John had heard from Holmes last night was a racking cough they are now all suffering from to varying degrees at least when awake—their lungs are adjusting to the dry air and lower oxygen pressure. John isn't sure where Holmes had flown to Kathmandu from; it's unlikely he'd been climbing somewhere else in Nepal since there are recent London tags in his gear bags. Even just the Base Camp is much higher than Kathmandu.

It's just John's luck that Holmes' baritone lends itself to a particularly resounding cough. It'll probably keep him up some nights if it continues.

"Morning", John says, and sticks the toothpaste-coated brush into his mouth.

Holmes gives him a brief, appraising glance without even slowing his steps down, then whips his head back towards where he was heading in the direction of the mess tent.

"Suit yourself," John mutters and spits out the toothpaste behind a rock.  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Flight to Base Camp:  
> – [video 1](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oJ7AypOKHBI) is a good overview of what John's team is up against...  
> – [video 2](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m-M1KCWqTmo)
> 
> [Landing at Base Camp](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xoiF_x8nqz0)  
> [Base Camp scenery](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E7KWZnq7SYw) 
> 
> There's a lot more permanent infrastructure at Annapurna Base Camp than what is described here. Artistic licence and all.
> 
>  **The Annapurna Sanctuary** is the name of a high-altitude glacial basin where the Annapurna massif and many other well-known mountains are located. It's a a relatively popular trekking destination, and for many the gateway to climbing one of the peaks in the area.
> 
>  **Alpine style versus expedition style climbing** = Wikipedia explains it well: Alpine style refers to mountaineering in a self-sufficient manner: carrying all of one's food, shelter, equipment, etc. as one climbs, as opposed to expedition style (or siege style) mountaineering which involves setting up a fixed line of stocked camps on the mountain which can be accessed at one's leisure. Sherlock's approach closely resembles alpine style, but he will be making use of the higher camps established by John's team to acclimatise.
> 
>  **Acclimatisation (in mountain climbing)** = The process through which the human body adapts to a certain altitude. The body begins to produce more red blood cells, more readily releases oxygen from haemoglobin to tissues, the pressure in pulmonary arteries rises which forces blood into portions of the lungs usually not used at sea level, and the depth of breathing increases. Some medications can be used to facilitate/fasten the process, but their use is somewhat controversial and they can't replace a proper acclimatisation plan. Diamox (acetazolamide) allows a climber to breathe faster, which is helpful particularly at night since that's when the respiration efforts decrease. Dexamethasone is a steroid that can lessen brain and other swelling. [Viagra](https://www.eurekalert.org/pub_releases/2006-06/aps-vih061906.php) has gained quite a lot of interest lately in potentially improving high-altitude exercise performance.
> 
> Here's [an example of an acclimatisation plan](http://www.mounteverest.net/expguide/accli.htm) for summiting Mount Everest.
> 
> During acclimatisation, every climber practically experiences some symptoms of mild Acute Mountain Sickness: headache, dizziness, fatigue, shortness of breath, loss of appetite, nausea, disturbed sleep, and generally feeling like crap. These symptoms abate within a few days as the body adapts. If more severe symptoms develop, the climber must descend to a lower altitude. A good, short-ish explanation of Acute Mountain Sickness can he found [here](http://www.princeton.edu/~oa/safety/altitude.html).
> 
> John's list of gear mentioned plenty of strange things, didn't it? I promise to introduce you to all the ones which are necessary for understanding what's going on as the story advances.
> 
> Here's [PART TWO OF MY WRITING DIARY @tumblr](http://jbaillier.tumblr.com/post/178834671175/time-for-part-two-of-this-production-diary-this)


	4. The Reticent Patient

 

>   
>  _"Maybe Himalayan climbing is just a bad habit, like smoking, of which one says with cavalier abandon, 'must give this up some day, before it kills me'."_  
>  – mountaineer and author Greg Child  
> 

  
The first days at Base Camp are spent resting, setting up equipment, monitoring the weather and getting ready for training and acclimatisation climbs. Neither of the peaks John has chosen from preparatory climbs will be particularly technically challenging or high, at least not compared to their prize which looms right next to base camp, its jagged ridges looking like the ominous smile of a feral dog.

The Base Camp is located on a dry glacial riverbed at 4130 metres, cradled between an eroded cliff side and the Annapurna massif itself. They're a full kilometre higher than the Nepalese capital, and far enough from the slopes of the nearest mountains to prevent the area's frequent avalanches from burying them. The hub of the camp is a semi-permanent mess tent which the season's first climbing expedition usually leaves in place for other commercial outfits to use afterwards for a small fee. The climbers' personal tents are off the main area. Closer to the mess tent there is a communications tent, a designated toilet area, storage tents for food with blue plastic barrels buried in the cold ground acting as freezers, and a circle of rocks for a campfire. Although they can't really light fires very often due to the area not having much wood available, sitting in the circle still tends to be a nearly daily occurrence, especially if there are several expeditions lodging at the same time. Like the mess tent, the campfire is a forum for swapping stories, getting to know people—or, as James calls it, _vital_ _business_ _networking_. John prefers to think of it as being an enjoying a bit of company like the next bloke.

Valerie and the group's four Sherpas make sure Base Camp runs efficiently. Two of the four—Tenzing Dorje and Pemba Tsheri—John has worked with before, two others—Pasang Golu and Temba Sherpa—are a bit younger but have already scaled a formidable collection of eight-thousanders. They have been hand-picked by Tenzing, who will act as the expedition's _sirdar_ —leading climbing Sherpa.

Without Sherpas, commercial climbing expeditions would simply not be possible. They act as guides, porters, kitchen and maintenance staff and rescue personnel. A nomadic ethnic group native to the mountain areas of Nepal and China, Bhutan and India, they have genetically adapted to living in high altitudes. These adaptations include an exceptional oxygen-binding capacity of haemoglobin and high cellular nitric oxide production. John always makes a particular effort to build good rapport with the Sherpas in his team and has learned to speak a bit of the Nepalese dialect of their language to make radio communications easier. 

John had been delighted to learn that Pasang would act as the team's cook—he's had the man's cooking before, and it rivals the quality found in the best local-owned restaurants in Kathmandu. Today's lunch is a thick, spicy chicken stew with lentils, and there's even fresh bread on offer.

John eats with Valerie, going through the latest wind prognoses with their first practice climb in mind. They don't engage much in small talk, the two of them; she doesn't seem fond of chitchat, instead communicating with a brusqueness that seems to enforce the worst stereotypes about the French.

John knows very little about her personal history. James had met her at a travel fair in Paris and apparently fallen head over heels, since he had delayed his return to Kathmandu for over a week after emailing John to tell him he was staying for a while. They were supposed to lead an expedition for K2 together just two days after James' flight back, so John had been forced to go without him. All James had offered in explanation were the words: ' _I've sort of met someone and it's complicated; sorry'_ on the phone when John finally got hold of him a day before their expedition was to leave.

In the end, having to spearhead the K2 project alone turned out to be a good thing. John had so much else to think about out there that after he returned, he'd pretty much processed the whole breakup. Instead of it feeling like a shock to the system, the distance had helped him realise it may have just been the inevitable fizzling out of something that had gone stale a long time ago.

The whole thing had felt so pedestrian and meaningless when he stood on the summit of the Savage Mountain.

They never spoke of their relationship again. Valerie moved to Nepal while John was in Pakistan and when John returned, it was as though he and James as an item had never even existed. Valerie and John got on, but hardly liked each other. James never took part in a Summit Fever expedition again, clearly preferring to stay in the office.

John has been surprised how little he misses being in a relationship, but it's hardly surprising that the loneliness sometimes hits like a sledgehammer. It never happens on the job, and it never happens on a climb, but in Kathmandu he hates spending nights alone in his grotty little flat.

  
-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-  


After lunch, there's no time for John to relax in the sun baking the valley. Walking past Mince who's working on his tan in front of his tent, wearing nothing but a pair of swimming shorts and his ever-present baseball cap ground deep into his unruly, blond, straw-like hair. John taps the visor so that the hat gets completely slanted.

"Oi!" Mince complains and John laughs as he heads to a tent pitched next to the communications hub.

Once stocked full of supplies, this will be John's clinic. Now, it's still mostly empty, and John engages the help of Pasang and Temba in carrying things from behind his own tent.

After years of acting in his double role as expedition medic and head guide, John's most essential medical gear has been streamlined down to a set that can be packed and unpacked in less than thirty minutes. But, for the clinic tent, he brings a lot more since there are no hospital services available out here without Herculean rescue and transport efforts. So, he needs to be able to treat anything and everything someone might develop or catch out here without needing to be Medevaced out. Stomach bugs, hangovers, heartburn; headache and other symptoms of altitude sickness; banal infections such as sinusitis; more serious stuff such as pneumonia and fracture first aid, pain meds, suture kits… Anything minor could turn major up in the higher camps where wound healing is slowed down by hypoxia. At least the Base Camp is low enough that, as long as someone isn't doing so badly from HACE or HAPE that they would need evacuation to lower altitudes, minor illness can be given time and rest to fix itself before a summit bid.

To ensure that the expedition doctor has all the knowledge they need to look after the climbers and to make sure no one starts the arduous climb up when poorly, Summit Fever has a rule: everyone gets a medical before climbing. It won't prevent someone concealing an illness later on during their stay so that they wouldn't be pulled off the summit team, but it will help weed out climbers who have failed to disclose an important piece of health information prior to embarking on the expedition. On this trip, John doubts there will be any issues since these are all seasoned high-altitude climbers: any major issues would have made themselves known on their prior climbs. On Everest and on easier peaks where Summit Fever runs treks, John has had to sometimes tell people they're off the summit team because they have failed to realise that their chronic or acute illnesses could kill them at altitude.

No one has ever protested their house rule. "Holmes agreed to it," James had told John on the phone, "We need to make sure he's not soloing because he wouldn't have passed the screening any reputable agency would have given him."

Once he's happy with his new office, he starts his round of exams with the Norwegians. Unsurprisingly, they're both fit as fiddles. Hakon has had a hernia operation a year ago, but he's climbed Denali since without any problems, so John is not worried.

After he's done with Hakon, he notices Ingrid lingering by the medical tent with a steaming mug in hand, waiting for her climbing partner.

"Are you heading back to your own tents?" John asks and gets a nod in return.

Holmes' tent in right next to theirs.

 _Might as well get it over with_. John is not looking forward to attending to the guy. It's obvious he's not keen on anyone poking their nose into his climbing business.

"Could you knock on Holmes' door and tell him to check in?" John asks, parting the fabric door wider so that Hakon can step out.

"Okay. When do you want to do the other two Brits?" Ingrid asks. "They were in the communications tent."

"I'd be happy to have a look at them after Holmes. Can you tell them to come find me in an hour?"

After the Norwegians have left, John sheds his down vest; even in the shade of the tent, it's now getting sweltering since the sun has heated up the tent.

John remembers he hadn't yet found his stash of hand disinfectant gel, so he start rummaging around for it. He still hasn't located it by the time he hears the zipper on the door open.

Holmes steps in, surveying the contents of the tent from top to bottom as though making sure everything is up to his standards.

 _Doesn't he ever stop judging everything everyone else is doing?_ John wonders, straightening himself to his full height. He narrowly avoids hitting his head on a LED lantern he'd hung from a support beam.

"There's no need for this. No one will be none the wiser if we agree not to waste your time," Holmes announces. He has stopped to stand just inside the door and crossed his arms tightly.

"Company policy."

"Out here, no one is keeping track."

"Out here, _I_ am keeping track," John replies, and hangs a stethoscope around his neck to signal that he isn't about to stand down. He nods towards the camp bed set up at the back, but Holmes doesn't shift a single inch towards it. "I don't bite," John jokes.

With a nearly histrionic sigh and a glare, Holmes slides his down vest off his shoulders and hangs it on a hook from the tent pole. He sits down on the bed, eyes fixed on the opposite wall of the tent and his expression schooled into one signalling boredom. Then, he pulls off his black T-shirt, which sends his neck curls bouncing briefly.

John blinks, oddly mesmerised by the sight. Holmes is thin but not gaunt. No, the younger man has a high-caliber rock climber’s physique: a triangular upper body with formidable biceps, whipcord-like trapezius muscle edges, and the anterior serrate muscles which drape his sides like tight bandages look woven, the sharply defined strands resembling the stripes on a barracuda. He’s all muscle, long bones and taut sinew, and an anatomist could use photos of him as teaching material.

 _No wonder_ _Rock and Ice put him on the cover last year._ John had seen the issue in a pile brought in by Mince who, for some reason, hauls around piles of old climbing magazines on expeditions. Sometimes, he scribbles things in them. John assumes it’s Mince who had drawn a Dali-style swirly moustache on Holmes’ cover photo where he was clinging on to an overhanging route in Utah, black curls contrasting nicely against the sunset-licked red rock face.

Having noticed John is practically staring at him, Holmes raises a brow. He makes no move to remove his wind breaker trousers, probably having reasoned that John would have no cause to request it.

John swallows, clears his throat, and uncoils the stethoscope from around his neck. “Weight?” he asks.

“None of your business.”

“It will be, if you lose too much of it.”

“You won’t be able to define 'too much' if you don’t have a baseline.”

John steps closer, rubs the bell of the stethoscope against his palm to warm it up. Holmes watches his hands.

“Have you gained back what you lost on your last bigger climb? What was it, again?”

 _I need to keep him talking._ Maybe Holmes will start answering questions if John manages to get the conversation going about something he won’t see as an intrusion on his privacy.

"Dhaulagiri, assuming you were referring to major mountain climbs and not just  _any_ climbing. And yes, I have."

John uncoils the stethoscope from his neck and sets to work while Holmes continues to stare past him as though deep in thought.

"Lungs clear, no abnormal heart sounds," John announces.

"I could have told you that."

"Only a stethoscope can tell me that."

Holmes rolls his eyes and then his attention seems to drift away again. He only snaps out of his reverie when John grabs his hand and clips on a pulse oximeter. It's a new model, about the purchase of which he'd nagged at James for some time since their old portable model kept acting out in lower temperatures. Studies have suggested that lower-than-average saturation readings at certain altitudes might predict a heightened risk for altitude sickness.

Holmes' oxygen saturation reading is 91 %, which is well in the range of what John would have expected for this altitude—favourable, even. John's own had been 88 % two hours ago; he knows from experience that it tends to improve several percentages during the first few days at Base Camp. Once above 6500 metres, everyone's readings tend to flatten out in the range of 60-65 %, which in a hospital patient in Britain would signal an immediate life-threatening situation. It doesn't drop below that, because the body goes into emergency mode, increasing the work of breathing immensely and deliberately bringing the body's pH to alkalotic levels, which increases haemoglobin's affinity to bind to oxygen to a maximum level.

John continues his examination by going through some more vitals. Holmes' blood pressure is 112/78 — exemplary, but his patient dismisses it as non-demonstrative of his actual level, which he proudly reports as being around 105/76 when in a sitting position near sea level.

"Your pulse is elevated, too," John points out after deflating the BP cuff. Out here, he uses classic Riva-Rocci blood pressure measurement equipment requiring a stethoscope because he's had several newer, automatic models die on him in the cold. "A bit of a white coat syndrome going on?" he teases gently in an attempt to lighten the mood and get his patient to relax.

"You're not wearing a white coat."

"Figure of speech. Have you ever had an ECG done?"

"Yes, many times. Normal findings. Same goes for a cardiac ultrasound."

John can't help but wonder why he'd had such a thing done, but the man's dismissive, reluctant tone tells him further prying into the details wouldn't be welcome. "I assume you're usually lower than 92 per minute?"

"My standard in a resting state is _forty-two_ per minute," Holmes tells him pointedly.

"A marathon runner's pulse. Impressive, even for a climber."

"Obviously."

John finds little in the man's physical state to worry about apart from two things. The first is an unfused, old clavicle fracture. The second is a series of old, scarred track marks in the crooks of his elbows.

John starts with the clavicle since there's nothing awkward about that. He presses down on the break, testing whether it seems to be painful. "How'd you get this? Big dislocation, should have probably been fixed with a plate."

"Patagonia. Not a hospital within three hundred kilometres, and I was in the middle of a project. It doesn't bother me."

"Must have hurt like hell, though, at first."

"Unlike most people, I don't find that pain slows me down. If anything, it sharpens the senses. I knew it wasn't a life-threatening injury and it wouldn't get worse if I finished the climb, so––"

John shakes his head. "You don't find pain distracting? It doesn't cause you to make mistakes?" He has seen what even minor injuries can lead to when climbing; during difficult parts of a route, even the slightest lapse in concentration can mean the difference between life and death.

"The stress hormones can give me an extra push, and if the pain gets too much, I shut it out."

"You  _shut it out_?"

Holmes frowns disapprovingly as though John is being a bit thick.

John can recognise a conversational dead end, so he moves on—not that he expects Holmes to get more forthcoming once he addresses the track marks.

He runs his fingertips over them on the right side. "These don't look new."

"Because they aren't." Holmes shakes off his fingers and quickly slips his T-shirt back on.

"Good. Stimulants or depressants?"

"Both."

Holmes is not looking at him. An A&E visit due to stimulant use could explain having had a thorough heart workup.

"Anything else I should know about this?" John asks. "All in confidence."

"I'm not using, now, so you shouldn't feel compelled to ask for further details."

John frowns. Every client signs a thick set of waivers full of promises to adhere to their company rules. Diamox and dex, as well as any personal medications legally prescribed by a physician, plus small doses of alcohol are permitted at the climbers' discretion, but the use of any narcotics or other performance-enhancing drugs will lead to instantaneous dismissal from the expedition. The stakes are high—would Holmes tell him the truth if he were an active user?

He decides to take a gamble. "If I told you to pee in a cup, you'd comply?" His supplies don't include quick-testing kits for drugs, but Holmes doesn't know that.

The man raises his head to looks at John, finally, and he looks fearless as he faces the scrutiny. "Yes, I would. And the result would be clear: I'm not using any _recreational or_ _performance-enhancing substances_ , as your inane paperwork phrased it."

"You are smoking, though," John points out. He's seen Holmes puffing up twice already today. It's not that rare among climbers, but as a doctor, John feels the responsibility to bring it up. "You do know it probably increases your risk for frostbite since it constricts peripheral blood vessels."

"Which is why I carry extra sets of heat packs and use nicotine patches on summit day."

"The effect doesn't pass so quickly; you'd have to be abstinent for longer to gain any benefit. Plus, your skin getting cold means that the nicotine might not absorb as easily on the climb as it does down here." John is also tempted to mention that it's probably exacerbating the racking cough he's been hearing from Holmes' tent, but since the man hasn't coughed once after arriving for his check-up and John had coughed at least thrice already, it would feel like teapotting. They're _all_ coughing—it's too early to tell whose symptoms are a harbinger of something sinister, and whose cough is just a run-of-the-mill acclimatisation thing.

"I'm not an idiot. I use several patches, and I obviously don't put them on my arms." Again, Holmes' tone is accusatory and belittling.

John refrains from asking where exactly it is that he slaps them on, then. Suddenly, it registers what else he'd said. " _Several_ patches? What strength?"

"Twenty-one milligram Nicoderm."

"But that's the strongest one? How many were you planning on for this one?"

"Three."

" _Three_?!"

"Altitude, anticipated length of summit bid in hours plus level of technicality." Holmes shrugs. "It's a three-patch mountain."

"Let's pretend for a moment that you know what you're doing––"

"I do know what I'm doing. Everest went swimmingly with three, and the summit day is longer."

John stares at him. Who in their right mind would describe summiting Mount Everest as something that would, in a million years, go _swimmingly_?

Maybe Holmes is right and asking more questions will only confuse _John_ more. "Well, alright, if that's––Good," he stammers. "That's all, I think. Clean bill of health."

"I could have told you that. No need for such theatrics."

"If I'm not allowed to just take my patients' word for it in the UK, why the hell would I do that out here?"

"I suppose that's sensible," Holmes concedes, zipping up his copper-coloured down vest.

"Medical services are a part of what you're paying us for, besides food and fixed ropes and transport. That means I'm here if you need me."

"Why would I need you?" Holmes asks, and ducks out of the tent.

"No reason at all," John mutters, and starts rummaging around for that damned elusive hand gel again.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Plenty of medical stuff in this one, including some that I have probably not explained as well as I should. So ask away :)
> 
>  


	5. Potatoes, Marshmallows, and Triumph

>  
> 
> "I don’t deny that there can be an element of escapism in mountaineering, but this should never overshadow its real essence, which is not escape but victory over your own human frailty."  
>  _– Walter Bonatti_

  
On the morning of their fifth day, John and Mince march the group to the edge of the campsite to a solid ice wall which curves into an overhang some twenty metres up. Armed with crampons, ice axes and dynamic ropes, each client is instructed to demonstrate their climbing technique by making their way up the obstacle. Nerves, lacklustre technique, slowness and other such issues need to be addressed at this point; any client unable to demonstrate safe mountaineering skills in the next few days will be denied a summit bid. Best disappoint early than let someone get killed because they can't keep up with the rest of the group. It's not often John has hadto pull someone out of a climb, and certainly not on any other expeditions than Everest. That mountain is the one that entices those hoping to cut corners to quickly gain the bragging rights of having stood on top of the world. John had got a black eye on one of the three occasions when he'd had to take someone off the summit team; a Canadian boxer hoping for a career doing climbing documentaries had been so slow and exhibiting such severe altitude sickness symptoms even at Camp Two that John had booted him off. They guy was certainly better at using his right hook than he was at swinging an ice axe.

Besides making their way up the ice wall using fixed ropes, John also makes his group demonstrate using ice screws and building ice bollards and other types of anchors for belaying and abseiling. None of the clients should take it as a vote of no confidence that they are forced to perform such basic tasks, because this display is not just for John: they will all sleep better after witnessing that everyone around them have the requisite skills.It’s a matter of building trust now,when their lives will depend on it later.

Surprisingly enough, Holmes hadn't protested at all when summoned for such morning exercise. John soon begins to suspect that it's because he excels at every one of these requested demonstrations with a smugly quirked-up lip. On the ice wall, he is quick as an ibex, nearly sprinting up with impeccable one-limb-at-a-time technique. He finishes off his run up to the start of the overhang with an adventurous leap and a double-hand axe hit which swings his lower body hard against the ice wall, but he braces his legs at just the right angle, and his crampons pierce into the bluish, hard ice with a satisfying click. Checking the integrity of a piton he deftly hammers into a crack high up, he abseils down with the speed and confidence of a secret agent descending from a helicopter.

After unclipping himself from the rope, he seems to bask in the admiring gazes directed at him from the experienced crowd. John gives him an appreciating nod.  _No wonder he attracts the attention of the mountaineering press. The man has style along with the_ _requisite technique._

Mince voices what John is thinking: "Nice going, man." He offers Holmes a piece of strawberry-flavoured gum which the man sniffs at contemptuously. "Though I wouldn't leap up like that above Camp Four since the ice can be a bit brittle up there because of the winds. How'd that wall feel?"

"Elementary," Holmes replies to the younger man, picks up his gear and heads back towards camp.

"Is he coming with us to Hiunchuli, then?" Mince asks John.

"Probably not."

John hasn't asked how Holmes is planning to acclimatise and practice for their summit bid, but he doubts the man wants to join the group acclimatisation climbs. The thought is slightly disappointing; John has to admit he finds the man interesting if not exactly pleasant company. He seems to guard himself and what he says so carefully, and something tells John there is an issue of some sort that he's trying to plaster with standoffishness. John's evidence is the man's reticence with the physical exam and the look he'd given to Valerie during their flight in—only John has been witness to those moments, and he can't get them out of his head.

Holmes mostly keeps to himself, but sometimes he lingers by the others, the look in his eyes challenging someone to approach him, but John doubts an attempt at engagement would be met with pleasantries. Holmes is behaving like a man who wants to be offered something just so he could decline. He _could_ just be a particularly charismatic arsehole, and it _could_ be that John is seeing something that isn't there, but he has convinced himself that there's what could only be described as a strangesadness lingering about the man. He doesn't seem excited for their goal like the others are; instead, he seems.... resigned.

John has noticed that Mince has been making a particular effort to give Holmes attention. The young Kiwi always likes everybody and wants them to like him back; usually, people do. It seems that Holmes has reluctantly thawed to respond to some of his attempts—accepting the occasional mug of tea and replying to his greetings of good morning and wishings of good night. Many people think Mince is a bit childish, a bit silly, and very,very harmless, but John finds his sunny disposition a force of great good. He isn't a naive optimist—he just has a boundless fondness for other people, and endless patience and ability to accommodate the harsh realities of lacking luxury of camp life. For Mince, the best part of climbing just might be the community, which makes him a cohesive force in an expedition. John thinks the man complements him well as a colleague, since he knows he has his own weaknesses when it comes to welding people together and defusing dissent.

No, John doesn't mind silly and sunny. Out here, especially in the higher camps suffering from the elements and the low oxygen and from exhaustion, people drop their masks and become their real selves. Honesty becomes currency. Priorities get straightened. Perspective gets righted. It's hard to worry about pointless stuff when just trying not to die. Mince changes the least—what everyone sees down here is the real deal. And John appreciates such earnestness.

Sometimes it seems as though Mince is…worried about Holmes? This suspicion has strengthened John's resolve not to let go of the idea that while Holmes may be soloing, he's still their client. He's still Summit Fever's responsibility, in the way that everyone climbing the same mountain are bound by an unwritten, traditional code of climber solidarity: _I save you and you save me, if it can be done without getting us both killed_.

What is it that brings Holmes to this barren wilderness? And why is he so determined to turn away from everyone else while negotiating these unforgiving slopes?

  
  
-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-0-o  
  


  
Three days later, their first jaunt up a peak in the Sanctuary goes perfectly—the weather gods seem to be smiling upon them, and the clients' acclimatisation seems to be going well.

An extension of Annapurna south, Hiunchuli is a nearly perfectly triangular mountain peak chosen by John for its moderate difficulty and its reasonable distance from Annapurna base camp. After setting off at dawn, they trek to the peak in four hours, then do a brisk, alpine-style summit climb up. Since it's a popular preparation peak for Annapurna I and many other mountains in the region, John and the Sherpas have been there before, which helps the team circumvent a problem the mountain is known for—navigation. Finding the best known route up and sticking to it can be a challenge.

Hiunchuli is quite a high choice for a first jaunt up, but at least it'll be a good litmus test to coax out those clients susceptible to severe altitude sickness. Experienced climbers that they all are, they still need to gradually condition their bodies to withstand the brief but extreme strain of climbing above six kilometres from sea level.

After days of being cooped up in camp, today's climb seems to exhilarate everyone. The bamboo forest their approach trek takes them through gets photographed thoroughly and starting the climb itself shakes out the cobwebs from John's head and helps him reset his sights on the massive, ominous sight of Annapurna I peeking through a gap in a nearby set of mountains.

Rockfalls are a significant danger on Hiunchuli, but they see none. The most frightening bit of the climb is the ridge that binds the summit to steep couloirs which look as though they'd been carved by the sharp nails of a goddess' hand into the rock face. The traverse required to negotiate this ridge is hair-raising, and not even the Sherpas look down much during it. The final, fluted tower of ice that forms the summit requires a bit of technical climbing, and they take extra care to set up more contingency ice screws than usual.

Six hours from arriving at the foot of the peak, they stand at its summit. Once up top, the sun shines so warmly that they remove their helmets and gloves but do not unclip from the rope as they take in the breath-taking view.

The colourful tops of their tents at Base Camp are not visible from this distance, so they feel as though they are the only living things in this hostile kingdom. Yet, while desolate and frightening, the view is so beautiful that words become scarce and few eyes remain dry.

Nothing else in the world can make John feel like this: humbled, privileged, and invincible at the same time. It seems against all odds that a human could do this. John has never liked to use the word 'conquest' about a successful summit bid: he simply thinks that today, right now, the universe allowed them this experience. They haven't bought a safe passage back to camp with their success—nothing is guaranteed even minutes from now. But, it's worth it—a fair price for such an experience.

John leans a little closer to the edge, feeling his harness tighten against the rope connected to a snow anchor. He high-fives Al North who takes his final steps to the summit, then lets his gaze sweep over the sight of the frozen vistas and lonely peaks straddled by mist spreading all around them.

He doesn't think about James.

  
-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-  
  
  


At lunch the next day, John scarfs down fried potatoes and onions with eggs on top as he goes through gear inventory lists with Mince. Valerie is sitting across the table, stealing occasional glances at their clients, scattered around the other tables.

"We'll send the Sherpas up three days before the summit bid, weather permitting," Mince suggests. "That way they can have a rest day or two days of margin for the rope work."

Fixed ropes won't be needed in all parts of the climb, but they are most certainly vital for most difficult stages of the route which lie just at the lower edge of the Death Zone. It will still be gruelling, dangerous work for the Sherpas to set it all up. Mince will climb with them to oversee the project but stay put at 7500 metres so that he has the energy to be able to stage a rescue effort if one of the rope team gets into trouble. It'll also help the Kiwi maximise his acclimatisation for summit day since he'll miss out on some preparatory climbs which John will be leading with Valerie for the clients.

"I like your thinking," John tells Mince and swallows down the last of his slightly over-steeped tea.

"Val?" John asks, wanting to be polite by allowing her input. Schedules are John's responsibility, but instead of just dictating everything, he wants his team to be behind all major decisions.

Valerie's gaze is fixed on Holmes, sitting alone in the corner in his usual table away from the rest.

"Stop staring," Mince tells her with a grin. "Or he'll get the wrong idea."

"He's skipping food again," Valerie points out in a quiet, low voice. "He probably drinks enough fluids, but all he had for dinner yesterday was tea, and now he's having just that again."

It seems that even Valerie is having trouble taking a step back—Holmes is still one of their clients, even if the terms of his contract differ from what the others have signed. Those contracts state, among other things, that if John pulls the plug on a summit attempt, they will obey. He has no such power over Holmes' climbing decisions. Even if the man started up stark raving mad and snow blind, there is little John could do to stop him. But, what John and his staff can do to ensure the best possible chance for everyone to survive is to look after them the best they can.

"I'm going to say something," Valerie decides and starts rising to her feet.

To John's surprise, Mince sticks up a palm. "I'll go.  He doesn't like you," he tells Valerie, "So I doubt he'll listen to you."

Valerie's heads whips around to look at John, who shrugs. "He's right."

Mince goes to Pasang Golu who's doing the cooking, and receives a plate towering with a fresh batch of onion fritters, steaming hot potato wedges, and boiled eggs. He grabs a few small packets of ketchup and mustard, and makes his way to Holmes' table, sliding his gifts onto the table.

"You gotta eat, dude," Mince tells him enthusiastically.

Holmes' expression says that he has never identified as anything even remotely resembling a 'dude', nor will he deign to start doing so in the future. He pushes the plate backwards to the edge of the table.

"I don't feel like it sometimes, either, but we're both skinny, we need the fat. Twenty thousand calories on summit day, man, just have a think on that," Mince prompts and John admires his disarming tone.

Mince isn't exaggerating: any guide should get concerned when a climber seems to ignore the fact that they useup fifteen to twenty thousand calories on summit day, and about ten thousand on other major climbing days. In the Death Zone, the body cannibalises itself for energy—yet another sign that life is non-sustainable for humans at the cruising altitude of a jet liner where the air is hypoxic and the temperature can plummet to minus thirty degrees celsius on a _nice_ summit day. Even at Base Camp they're going to be dropping weight unless they eat well. John has witnessed, first-hand, the importance of nutrition: it can mean the difference between life and death when a well-fed climber will have enough fuel to get themselves down from the summit whereas someone for whom malnutrition has crept in during the long weeks of waiting for summit day may keel over from lack of energy.

It appears that such cold logic can be a workable angle with Holmes since the man reluctantly pulls the plate back to himself.

A beaming Mince returns to their table and they finish their logistics planning for the fixed ropes. The Kiwi then gathers his papers and walks out of the mess tent with Valerie, leaving John to finish enjoying his coffee.

Just as he is about to down the last drops, someone clears their throat behind him. _Holmes._

"Call your bloodhounds off my case, Watson."

Without giving John a chance to reply, he then walks out, leaving the fabric door of the tent flapping angrily in his wake.

  
  
-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-  
  
  


That evening, when only the tips of the surrounding mountains remain gilded with orange sunlight and the valleys embracing the glacial riverbed of the base camp are beginning to drape themselves in shadow, John leaves his tent for the fire pit at the edge of Base Camp. It's one of Summit's expedition traditions to have an assembly soon after the first training climb or the first ascent to Camp Two, depending on which peak they're climbing. At Everest, it's never just their group around—during climbing season, Base Camp is teeming with hippies, wannabes, climbing groupies, media crews and climbers. Here at Annapurna, especially, so early into the Spring weather window, they are the only denizens of the Base Camp.

John is just about to leave the cluster of personal tents behind when Mince practically leaps out from behind a boulder and slaps him on the shoulder with a small plastic bag of marshmallows. Considering how often the man is seen munching on them—campfire or no campfire—John is almost certain the younger man keeps conjuring them out of thin air. And, the air in these parts certainly is thin enough.

Truth be told, John would have preferred to have a solitary rest tonight, but as the leader of the expedition he is expected to make an appearance. It's assumed to be his job to keep spirits up, to lead conversation, to be the master of ceremony. This part of John'sjob can become tedious in that it has to be turned on and off like a tapwhen needed, rather than be spontaneous and genuine. He can easily tolerate these gatherings since they allow him to get to know his fellow climbers better, but the limelight he has never wanted or enjoyed.

Not like James.

Sometimes John has wondered if the man's heart truly was in climbing, or if he always saw it as just a commercial opportunity. How else could he have stopped climbing just like that? It can't be all down to Valerie's influence, since she spends long periods away from him doing exactly that. Watching her on Hiunchuli today, John has no doubts about her dedication to the sport—she's a different person on a summit bid. John is relying on that effect to smooth their relationship for the duration of this expedition; the strain and triumph of summiting seems to sandpaper the abrasiveness out of their interactions, to turn their gazes in the same direction.

"Roastin' time, Johnny English," Mince teases and walks a few steps backwards in front of John before whipping his nose around towards where flames are already dancing in the crisp night air. One of the Sherpas is ripping an empty corn flakes packet to add to the pit.

John chucks; Mince is being his typical self—he obviously can't wait to suck in social interaction like a remora. He hastens his steps to keep up with the younger man, but then it occurs to him to ask if Mince had done a full round of asking everyone to join. "Did you talk to Holmes?"

"I don't think he wants to join. Told me to essentially fuck off two hours ago when I was just asking if he would need any ropes for tomorrow."

Irritation pours into John; paying for their gear services does not mean Holmes gets to disrespect his staff. "I'll go ask him."

"Nobody likes being nagged about food; maybe he's just in a bad mood," Mince muses, rips open the plastic bag and pops a marshmallow into his mouth.

"Or maybe he was born that way," John replies and turns to head back to the tents. "Leave some for me," he shouts after Mince, who waves the bag above his head like a hunting trophy while jogging towards the fire pit.

Holmes' tent is the only one lit like a Chinese lantern in the night; everyone else must have headed to the assembly already.

It's hard to coax a proper knocking sound out of a door made of fabric, but John tries anyway, connecting knuckles to the fibre tent pole.

"Yes?" comes a clipped tone from inside.

"It's John. We're having a gathering; there's a fire by the mess tent."

"And?"

"Maybe you'd like to come." John doesn't unzip the door; he hasn't been asked to enter. Normally, he isn't this overtly courteous—after all, thanks to tents walls being fabric indeed, they all hear each other's emotional outbursts and bodily functions out here. Nothing is sacred—or remains a secret.

"I'm not paying your firm for entertainment," Holmes dismisses.

"No, we throw it on top as a bonus that you get to hear Mince's bad jokes and everyone's stories. It's a tradition, nothing more."

"You're informing me of this out of principle, then." Petulant. Challenging.

"No, I'm asking because I'd like it if you came and Lord knows we get to be alone plenty enough when we head up." Near the summit, chatter is cut to a minimum since it uses up precious oxygen.

"Nobody wants me there."

Solo climbing is a sport for those who can deal with solitude and self-sufficiency, but out of the soloists John has met, nearly all have seemed to be great fans of base camp interaction with other climbers. Rare is the true hermit type. Holmes just might be it, but if Mince is right and he's been having a run of bad days, maybe some human company might do him good.

"Maybe _I_ want you there," John can't resist replying, relishing the stunned silence that follows.

It's even true.

John finds himself curious about the man and not at all put off by his moodiness and attempts to alienate everyone. The amount of effort Holmes is putting into alienating everyone is both absurd and impressive.

"Well?" John presses.

There's no reply from inside the tent.

After a few minutes of feeling like a fool, John purses his lips and sighs, then heads to where the others are gathered around the fire that is hungrily licking the inky darkness.  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First things first: all hail 7PercentSolution for the crowd-pleaser in chapter 4 that was the term "three-patch mountain". This is what betas are for: they don't just fix your story, they make it _better_.
> 
> There truly is very little firewood available at Annapurna. But, perhaps John's team might have burnt their rubbish at least (rubbish being a major issue in mountaineering these days, especially at Everest). 
> 
> Hiunchuli = an extension of Annapurna South, this peak reaches up to 6441 metres. It was first climbed in 1971, and while it has been given the confusing Nepalese designation of a "trekking peak", it is among the more demanding of them all to scale due to the challenges of finding the route and because there's a significant danger of rockfall and seracs toppling down. John's making it sound much more of a leisurely stroll uphill than it is.
> 
> crampons = spikes strapped onto shoes for climbing on ice and snow (I’ve worn these once on a glacier hike)
> 
> dynamic ropes = ropes that stretch a bit when they go taut when you fall; the stretch prevents having massive G-forces put on you. The other rope type is called a static rope; they don't stretch.
> 
> fixed ropes = In a commercial expedition, the staff and the Sherpas will use anchors, ice screws and other such equipment to attach semi-permanent ropes (lasting at least the duration of one team's climb) to all dangerous and/or technical stretches of a climb. These are referred to as ‘fixed ropes’. Setting them up is hard work, and naturally quite dangerous since the climbers taking the gear up and doing the work will be pioneering the route up for that season. Once the ropes are in place, climbers can then use jumaris to grip the rope as they ascend; usually, a short additional safety rope is also attached to their harnesses and connected to the fixed ropes as a failsafe. Solo climbers such as Ueli Steck who have done the most significant summiting speed records would mostly likely not use fixed ropes, and Sherlock is treating them as a safety measure rather then something he’d rely on for much of his summit bid. As for how such daredevils climb, have a look at [Steck ascending Eiger's North face](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NfpYNr7es0Y).
> 
> piton = in climbing gear, it’s a metal bit/spike/device that is driven into a crack or seam in the climbing surface with a climbing hammer. Other devices used in a similar manner (which do or do not require a hammer) are cams, nuts, and quickdraws. [Here’s an overview of them](https://www.rei.com/learn/expert-advice/basics-gear-racking.html). 
> 
> ice bollards, snow anchors = rope setups used to secure ropes on climbing routes. Here's [a very good overview of them](https://www.timeoutdoors.com/expert-advice/walking/winter/snow-and-ice-anchors).
> 
> belaying = refers to techniques used to prevent a climber falling very far; a climber can belay themselves, or they can use a belaying partner to feed them more rope, lower them down or catch their fall. As Wikipedia puts it: the belayer _“puts tension at the other end of the rope whenever the climber is not moving and removes the tension from the rope whenever the climber needs more rope to continue climbing”_.
> 
> abseiling = to make a controlled descent down a vertical drop using a rope; a synonym is rappelling 
> 
> jumar = a device for gripping a rope when ascending; [Wikipedia has some good info on ascender devices](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ascender_\(climbing\)) in general. Here's [a video on how to use jumars](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JckqDmYf-aA). In [this video](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l-dMVvvIt8M), from 18:50 onwards you can see a climber using a jumar on a difficult part of K2.
> 
> climbing harness = a set of loops that connect to one another and which go around your waist and your thighs, to which you can then clip a safety ropes, and from which you can hang various gear. Generally, these needs to be so tight that they are uncomfortable; don’t want to slip out of one when you fall off the overhang at 21 metres up. I used to wear a Singing Rock harness and lead climb with Petzl dynamic ropes on these ridiculously low northern cliff sides and in indoor climbing gyms. At altitude, one wears a harness on top of a down suit. Here’s [an example of the sort of harness out boys might be wearing](https://eu.blackdiamondequipment.com/en_FI/climbing-harnesses/chaos-harness-BD651046_cfg.html#cgid=harnesses&start=21). 
> 
> I will publish the third part of my writing diary on tumblr with the next chapter. I will provide a link in the chapter notes.


	6. A Warning

 

 _"Those who travel to mountain-tops are half in love with themselves, and half in love with oblivion."_    
– Robert McFarlane __  
  


Stars have come out to dot the darkness and the moon is bright, helping John avoid tripping on rocks as he makes his way to the campfire. About half of the group have brought torches or headlamps. The temperature has plummeted, and everyone is wearing down jackets and down bottoms. Woollen hats and gloves are already in use as well, except for in the hands of those sitting closest to the fire. Bigger rocks serve as seats, dragged into a circle surrounding a smaller nest of rocks reserved for the bonfire itself. Not much proper firewood is available, but rubbish burns well, and the Sherpas always seem to be able to find some bits and pieces of wood from somewhere.

One of the Sherpas is pouring hot chocolate into everyone's plastic or aluminium mugs, and Mince's offerings of marshmallows are being well received.

The man himself is sitting next to Pemba Tsheri, both grinning—Pemba's sporting much fewer remaining teeth than Mince's—and they are humming a word John recognises in a meditative manner. It's _Chomolungma_ , the Tibetan name for Mount Everest.

"You two need to have your compasses serviced, you've got the wrong mountain," John quips, and the two singers dissolve into laughter and clink their mugs together, making John wonder from the redness on their cheeks if one of them hasn't spiked the drink with a bit of Nepalese hooch. It's the only booze John knows that would have kicked in that fast.

John receives a helping of cocoa and sits down on a rock next to Hakon, one of the Norwegian climbers. To John's right sits their group's Japanese member.

Now that he has arrived, all eyes are on him, expectant.

"Well," John starts and raises his red plastic mug, "Here's to our first summit." After everyone has toasted thoroughly, he clears his throat again. "I know we've all had plenty of time to chat already, but now that we're here and we've had a taste of Annapurna region climbing, I'd like to do a round table. The question is: why do _you_ want to stand up there?" he asks, pointing his thumb somewhere behind him where the Annapurna massif sits vigil over their conversation. "And, no one is allowed to say 'because it was there'," he adds, which brings on a wave of laughter. A quote long-ago turned into a climbing lore cliché, it is what famous British climber George Mallory had replied in an interview when asked why he wanted to summit Mount Everest.

"Val, you want to start?" John asks when nobody volunteers.

The Frenchwoman swallows a mouthful of cocoa and flashes an unusually unadulterated smile. "I have three eight of the ten highest mountains. It seems I have left the most difficult ones for last."

"K2?" Ingrid asks.

"That is the other one, yes. Maybe next year," Valerie says, hiding her smile behind her mug as she sips again. "And you?"

"I'm not after some list, but I like a challenge, and after I read Herzog's book years ago, Annapurna has been on my list." Ingrid nudges her climbing partner.

"I like mountains with history, with stories. I'd go for Machapuchare if I could, and I find this region wonderful. Fewer tourists," Hakon points out, eliciting enthusiastic nods from the others. "I have trekked for years, many years, before climbing, and it felt.... I feel... uncomplete? Is that the word? Even If I don't get to summit this, I will still have done many of the trekking peaks here, and Dhaulagiri."

Hakon is a modest man, but John had been very impressed with his attitude and his track record of very difficult Alpine and Himalayan ascents during their phone call. He's very much a realist; one of those people who John would never worry about taking unnecessary risks just to summit.

"I'm here, because I managed to trick you daft buggers into paying for my climbing permit," John says, using one of his regular jokes. A few chuckles are his award.

Al North leans forward, gaze fixed on the flickering flames. "I'm here for Joze."

John knows he must be speaking of Joze Rozman, a Slovenian with whom Al had tried to conquer Annapurna once before and who had perished on Kanchenjunga. Judging by what Al had told John on the phone in his soft-spoken manner, it had been a heavy blow to the man and it had taken him years to reconsider trying again.

It had been a joy watching Al climbing today, and John hadn't hesitated to ask him plenty of questions; the man is a legend and it's a privilege to learn from him.

Al is leaning back in his chair, twisting his torso backwards and John looks past him to see what he's looking at.

"Ah, our young friend," Al recognises as Sherlock Holmes walks into the circle.

There is one rock slightly off the main circle still available, and he perches on it primly and without a word. He hasn't brought a mug, and he tries to protest the fuss when one of the Sherpas jog to the mess tent anyway to get him a serving of the hot chocolate.

"We're doing introductions," Mince explains to Holmes a bit hesitantly, probably because he expects to get his head bitten off again.

"Still?" Holmes asks, then glances at John. He doesn't sound sarcastic, more apprehensive, and he is now studying John's face in the low light as though looking for answers there.

"Just discussing why we're doing this. I think our fellow Brits were about to go next." John nods towards the pair.

The older one states that they had looked at lots of options, then decided that, difficulty-wise, Annapurna just might be the next step forward in their climbing careers. They turn out to be a godson and godfather.

"We're not after some record like you," the younger of them says, looking at Holmes. "This a part of your no-oxygen solo thing, then?"

"Obviously."

"But why did you start doing everything solo in the first place?" asks Valerie.

Holmes shrugs, and puts down his mug next to his rock. "A summit team is only as strong as its weakest member, and I will never be that. Thus, in any team, there will always be someone who drags me down, causes delays and jeopardises my summit bid. I won't let that happen. Ever. As for why I'm doing Annapurna—as I am the rest of the eight-thousanders—it's simply because it seemed as worthy or unworthy a goal as anything else. It's a distraction, one that is pointless by nature, of course—but then again, so is everything else. Especially futile would be some safe, pedestrian existence with a nine-to-five job and a pub night every Wednesday. I'd rather at least experience something before it all ends. It hardly matters to anyone if I climb a mountain or I don't; it simply keeps my mind from starting to gnaw on itself. As for solidarity of team spirit, which are often advertised to me as something to strive for in climbing—they're not things people are willing to grant me, so why would I reply in kind? Why pretend it matters what happens to me, if I'm the only one with anything to lose in that?"

Silence falls on the group.

Something makes John glance at Al, who perhaps has the most experience and the widest perspective of the climber mind set out of all of them. Incidentally, Al is looking at him, and even in the dim light from the flickering fire, his gaze carries a warning as he shakes his head slightly at John.

"Right, then," John says, wanting to cringe for how fake his perkiness sounds. Maybe it's the sinking feeling that has suddenly appeared in his stomach that makes his voice waver just a bit. Why does he feel like someone has just crawled over his grave?

He seeks Al's attention again, but the legendary climber's eyes are now fixed on the orange glow of the fire pit, and a more serene expression has taken over.

 _If a tree falls in the forest…_ If a man climbs a mountain, and there is no one to acknowledge his achievement, does it lessen its value? To John, the answer is no. The only thing that matters is what the man on top of that mountain experiences. But, for a climber to say it doesn't matter, that it's all just a distraction––

John watches Mince dig out a barbeque skewer from his backpack and stick a marshmallow to the end of it. He passes it to Holmes, who turns it slowly, examining the white blob of it like an alien lifeform, before eating it primly without bringing it close to the flames.

 _What did you mean, really?_ John wants to ask. _Do you care?_ He wants to ask, but not in front of all these people, and he wouldn't know how to find the right words, anyhow. They feel stuck to his palate, sticky like a hangover. So, he stays as silent as Holmes.

Valerie prompts their shy, Japanese member to talk about her reasons, and with great difficulty she explains that she wants to climb the ten highest mountains on Earth. "I will work hard to achieve summit," she promises, looking straight at John who nods. She doesn't make a fuss about herself, her climbing technique is excellent, and her diminutive size means that she moves economically up a slope, unlike some of the larger men in the group. Her communicationskills in English are limitedand her shyness means she doesn’t talk much at all, which is the only thing John finds a bit worrying; if something is wrong, will she pluck up the courage to tell the guides or the Sherpas? He makes a mental note to talk to her about it.

After deciding he doesn't know how to address the vague worries amassing at the back of his mind, John has tries not to look at Holmes but can no longer resist the temptation. He has turned slightly so that he isn't even facing the group.

The man looks withdrawn, gazing out into the darkness surrounding them. Before, it had felt like a protective shroud but now, it constricts and threatens, like the weight of water when diving deep down.  

John wants to ask Al what he'd tried to signal, but he can't do it here, or now. All he has is his gut feeling to go by. A gut feeling that is making him remember the sight of Mark Wick disappearing from view, one slow step at a time. But, Mark had been different. He had passion, he had ambition, and he sure as hell wanted to summit and to get back down so that he could tell everyone what he'd done. He's different from Holmes— _was_ different from Holmes. He wanted to survive. He wanted to triumph. Yet, they're all sitting vigil by a mountain that became his gravestone.

John remembers an incident on Everest he'd heard about from a guide working for another firm. A client had been so angry and disappointed at having been turned away a mere hundred metres below the summit due to alarming changes in the weather, that he threatened to jump off the mountain. That sort of stubborn desperation doesn't quite fit what John had heard in Holmes' voice—he wouldn't have believed it even of Mark Wick.

The first part of Holmes' explanation had sounded rehearsed and a bit high-and-mighty. The last part, less calculated. There had been little emotion there, no passion at all. It's as though he didn't quite care about what he was doing but saw no alternative. Does he care so little about things in general that he wouldn't be caught with the sort of summit fever that made a climber ignore all risks and warnings and go for the prize? Or, does his attitude mean that he doesn't care about risks to start with, because he doesn't care what happens to him?

John thinks back to his short medical career, especially his days as a GP. The patients he'd heard discuss their lives in such a manner as Holmes usually carried the diagnosis of depression.

It's obvious Holmes has money, and that money allows him to do the one thing he excels at and enjoys – mountaineering. Yet, he actively isolates himself from the rest of the community. Before, John would have suspected it was a calculated PR thing to bring in an air of mystery, but he no longer believes that at all. What Holmes has just said doesn't sound like someone who has decided that being the snooty bad boy is what'll land him some lucrative sponsorship deal, once he's banked his solo-without-oxygen eight-thousanders.

Has he chosen this nearly inhuman goal because he doesn't care if he succeeds? Who the hell would do this just because they wanted a distraction?

 _That's one hell of an expensive distraction_ , John thinks, and can't help wondering how terrible it could be inside someone's head for them to want to climb thousands of feet above sea level to escape it.

"You're kidding me!" Mince's incredulous voice rises above the rest of the chatter and pulls John's attention back to the group.

"I watch in telescope, he did it," Tenzing says.

"Did what?" John asks. "Who?"

"While we were doing Hiunchuli, apparently this guy," one of the Brits replies, cocking his head at Holmes, "Went to 6200 metres on bloody _Annapurna South_!"

John nearly chokes on the hot chocolate he has just sipped. "You what?!"

Holmes looks utterly nonchalant as incredulous faces hone in on him. "I saw no point in trekking for hours to get to a suitable peak for a bit of technical practice and altitude. The South summit is right there, and there was an interesting-looking traverse I wanted to explore."

"Do you have any idea what the avalanche risk on that side is in springtime?" Valerie asks sternly.

"Negligible, if one can read the landscape. I wanted to see if the start of the Japanese route, touted to be, I quote: _'the world's most perilous climb_ ' was anything like its reputation. I'd say it was all hyperbole. I did the traverse to back and forth and came down in roughly the time it took you to do Hiunchuli."

"He move fast," Tenzing praises, "But avalanche not care about speed, it faster."

"Of course it would be faster," Holmes snarks back. "I do my homework reading the weather and the snow. And, I choose my own routes so this collective grousing is whollyunnecessary."

"Your funeral, mate," the older British climber, Peter, scoffs.

John opens his mouth to say a few stern words about such comments but realises that there is half a truth in that bleak statement. Holmes hadn't checked his plan with any of the staff, but at least he seemed to have told the Sherpas at camp where he'd been going. Still, it would have been hard to send help to him without knowing what exactly he was planning.

"Holmes is not a part of our guided tour," John sternly tells the rest of the group, "Not that being on a guided expedition guarantees anything," he adds. "We all must take responsibility for ourselves, but it would do all of us some good to remember that our decisions impact others. Summit Fever doesn't leave anyone behind, whether they are solo climbers or on a guided expedition."

"Noble of you, but not very fiscally responsible to endanger more people in some naively optimistic rescue effort," Holmes says. "You obviously have some personal need to enforce your moral code on everyone else."

Al North stands up. "Thank you, John, and everyone; I think I'm done for tonight. Goodnight."

John can't help jogging after him; he catches the man at his tent.

"Al––" he starts.

"John, he's right, you know," the veteran climber interrupts him. "You need to step back, unless you want to spend years blaming yourself for something he brought on himself. One day, his luck willrunout. How many times do you want him to absolve you of responsibility? I've been in this business for thirty years, and I have seen guys like him come and _go_ , if you catch my meaning. The lucky ones find another addiction and survive. The rest learn that they're not immortal, and they tend to learn it the hard way.The _permanent_ way."

"How do you just walk away from someone?"

"You don't—you always do what you can. But, you can't save someone who doesn't want to be saved. You need to make peace with that thought before you turn yourself into the collateral damage of their self-destruction."  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time for some more random rambl–– [I mean writing notes on tumblr](http://jbaillier.tumblr.com/post/179119338340/this-collection-of-random-ramblings-deals-with).


	7. An Uphill Battle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to express my infinite gratitude for the enthusiasm with which this AU has been met. Writing is fun, but having such fantastic company on this icy roller coaster ride is what makes my day over and over again.

 

For John, the next six days pass swiftly even though little progress on their goal peak is achieved. Since his staff is a small group, he is forced to take a hands-on approach to the the day-to-day running of Base Camp, which keeps him busy enough not to feel the jitters of having to wait for their summit day.

It's a bright but cold Sunday, and John assigns Mince to lead a practice climb on Tharpu Chuli—also known as Tent Peak. It's a technically easy trekking peak neighbouring the Annapurna Massif. It's good practice for the Kiwi in taking charge; John has instructed Valerie to step back and let Mince do his thing. She's happy to do so, because it'll allow her to just keep an eye on the group while enjoying her own climb.

John will have to stay at Base Camp to organise redoing some fixed ropes lower on the mountain, because the first words out of his mouth this morning had been curses: a night avalanche had wiped out already set up ropes on a lower stretch of their route. Hopefully, the rest of the route is still alright; Mince and the Sherpas had finished setting it up last week. Two Sherpas will climb to Camp Three to have a look, because the telescope can’t reveal much at this distance. The other two Sherpas will join the Tharpu Chuli climb.

Their expedition is the first one on the mountain this season, and even if they weren't, John would never trust the rope systems left behind by another group anywhere else than on Everest, where there is at least some organisation into how things are done. Due to the overcrowding there it would be a disaster if nobody coordinated the rope work, or if everyone tried to set up their own. Money issues and nobody wanting to take responsibility when something goes wrong, along with some other causes of infighting, have made it a volatile matter. Rope issues shouldn't be taken lightly—they are literally the climbers' lifelines.

Valerie has advised that the weather might change in the afternoon, but since the lower parts of Tent Peak are basically a sloped walk back to base camp, John isn't worried. Mince and Valerie had gone through the latest forecasts and decided that their practice mountain is so well sheltered behind the massif that wind shouldn't be a problem. Snowfall might happen, but that's hardly unusual this time of the year.

At an early breakfast, John gathers the Sherpas and writes down equipment lists for each of them to take up. The Sherpa team will handle the higher sections of the length of route John has chosen for today while he stays lower to tackle a steeper part which will need a larger number of ice screws per ten metres than the higher sections, because part of it requires traversing sideways. It will also see heavy traffic due to being between Base Camp and Camp Two. Accidents often cluster on the descent when climbers are tired and can get reckless due to thinking that the ordeal is nearly over, and many have perished on relatively easy or low sections of climbs. There is also the issue of potential rescue: the better the fixed rope setups are, the easier it would be to use them to lower someone down who cannot walk.

John could have delegated all of today's work to others, but he likes showing that he puts in the same hours as anyone else, and he needs the acclimatisation. It will be good to get up there, to do some physical stuff; they're all getting restless being cooped up at Base Camp.

Just as John is about to ask how the Sherpas would like to divide themselves for the assignment, someone clears their throat behind him.

"You'll get more done if you form two pairs."

John twists his torso in his plastic chair and comes face to face with Holmes, sitting in what has come his regular table at a darker corner at the back of the tent. John has made note of how he always sits alone of his own initiative.

"Well, I haven't got three other people to do this."

"I could come with you."

John's brows hitch up. "You don't need to. You're the one who likes keeping tally on what you're paying us for, and this is one of those things so kick back, read a book—or better yet, go climb Tent Peak with Mince."

As far as John knows, Holmes hasn't climbed anything since his Annapurna South stunt. Neither has anyone else, besides frequent technical practice on a nearby ice wall.

Holmes coughs, then dabs his lips with a napkin. John has continued monitoring his cough—how could he not, since he can easily hear it at night through his tent wall. It's not as severe as the mountain coughs of many of the other clients, but the deep tone of if probably connected to the man's baritone makes John stir from his slumber every time he has a more severe fit.

"Perhaps I want to assess the quality of your handiwork myself before trusting it," Holmes says, but he doesn't sound as arrogant as usual. This sounds more like an excuse—an attempt at making it sound like his reason for offering to help has nothing to do with wanting company and everything to do with planning a summit bid. "I see no need for a walk up a hill, even if the view is supposed to be quite nice from Tharpu Chuli. I would much rather make myself useful. As usual, base camp life is proving unbearable monotonous."

John had learned from Valerie that Holmes had already been quite acclimatised before meeting up with them in Kathmandu, since he'd just flown in from scaling a few lesser climbed six-thousanders in Pakistan. Al had heard through the grapevine that Holmes had also recently spent a week in Bhutan in talks with the government to star in a documentary about the elusive country considering opening its borders to climbers again. At that point Valerie had joined the conversation; she had heard from her friend at a mountaineering website that Holmes' infamous tact and diplomacy had wrecked the deal with both the Bhutanese government and the German production company.

John can't help being suspicious of the man's motives for offering help today. He's sure as hell not going to put up with being micromanaged and his rope fixing skills scrutinised. He's been at this longer than Holmes has.

He can understand the cabin fever, though. The daylight hours do, sometimes, crawl agonisingly slowly when there's less work to be done, and the nights out here are long. James always used to enjoy the downtime—for John, it was torture, staring up at what he wanted, yet having to talk himself out of just going for it right then and there against his better judgment because the weather wasn't right or he wasn't yet acclimatised.

Holmes stands up and meticulously arranges his white, plastic chair to lean against the edge of the table. "I would appreciate the opportunity. Sitting here waiting is getting on my nerves." He averts his gaze, making it appear as though he's made a very personal admission.

"It gets on everyone's nerves." Sometimes it feels like his professional role is the only thing keeping him from succumbing to the mind set their company is named after: the restless anticipation of _getting the hell on with it_.

"So––?" Sherlock asks tentatively, biting his lip.

John's brows hitch up. Even though the man has only made a polite offer for help, _no big deal_ , he now looks like he's expecting a brutal and wounding rejection. "Sure, we could use a hand," John finally says to let the poor man out of his awkward misery.

A rare sight: Holmes gives him an unadulterated smile. It turns out he is capable of a downright sunny one that reaches up to his ears, tints his cheeks with a sunrise-rosy pink and curls up the rarely seen laugh lines on his cheeks. John is returning it before he even realises.

He says a few words in Nepalese to the Sherpas, giving them new instructions on the project, then shovels in the last of his fried eggs before getting up. Holmes has been standing by the tent doorway, looking slightly apprehensive as though not sure if John had expected him to wait or not. When John heads for the door, he suddenly steps out, shouting over his shoulder, "I'll get my gear."  


-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-

  
John's departure is delayed by Valerie wanting a word with him and Mince about Al North before they start their hike for Tent Peak. She is not the only one who has noticed that the older climber seems to be struggling with a severe cough and fatigue. He seems out of breath even when doing small chores.

"Tent Peak will be an important test, then, for his stamina," John tells her. He promises to have a look at the man in the clinic tent afterwards regardless of how he performs today, and Valerie and Mince decide to assign one of the Sherpas to climb with him.

Many mountaineers climb up until a very late age but staying fit enough it requires rigorous training around the year. John knows Al hasn't done much Himalayan climbing after Joze's death. Experience is invaluable, but age and getting out of shape will weigh more in the scales. Not all high-risk cases for HAPE and HACE and exhaustion and hypothermia can be predicted beforehand;ultimately it will be down to John's assessment and Al's own estimate of his chances that will determine his fate. If he has any doubts, he'll need to pull Al off the summit bid.

  
  
-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-

 

Finally, John emerges from his tent, harness strapped on and crampons hanging from a utility loop in it since they'll start the approach over gravel and ice which would only dull the sharp spikes.

Holmes is standing in front of his neighbouring tent, stretching his wrists and arm extensors. John is seeing him in his lighter altitude gear for the first time and is tempted to whistle; what the man has got on is prohibitively expensive, cutting-edge stuff. Around base camp, John has already seen him sporting the hellishly expensive North Face Baltoro down jacket which John has been lusting after for years. He's certain he wouldn't look as good in it as Holmes does with his wiry, whippet-like build. John remembers well the glimpse he'd had of Holmes' astoundingly beautifully sculpted back, the musculature obvious even through thin shirts, which tapers down to a narrow waist and delicately narrow hips.

John hasn't gotten laid in ages so he has given himself permission to admire these things, even though Holmes is a client. During the physical, he'd kept his thoughts strictly within a business range, but there's no harm in letting his mind wander at least a bit, is there? Holmes would be the first to tell his he's not _really_ a client like the others, just someone who's essentially paid for a bit of rope and an airbus ticket.

The man isn't John's usual type—assuming he even has one—but he is a sight for sore eyes, especially here in the wilderness where the pickings are slim.

Holmes spots him and straightens his back, tucking the end of the waist strap of his harness into a side loop. "Took you long enough."

"Had stuff to discuss. Ready?" John asks, grabbing his set of ice axes from where they're hanging from a tent pole just outside the door.

Holmes nods, readjusts his wraparound sunglasses and follows John out of the camp.

  
-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-  
  


Neither of them says a word during the hike up to the foot of the massif, but John catches his companion keeping a close eye on him. At least that's what he appears to be doing; it's hard to tell with Holmes having his shades on. John has put on his own—ultraviolet radiation gets more intense the higher one gets, and this morning the daylight is blindingly bright.

The sun has consolidated the fresh snow on the less steep lower slopes by melting the surface layer; the first eighty metres up the mountain require nothing but steady steps of their crampon-adorned boots, with the occasional reach out with an arm to sink an ice axe down into the snow for balance. The few rocks sticking out of the ground are covered with a thin layer of ice, the quality of which pleases John.

The mountains change so much with the weather and the hour. Walls that stand dark, oppressive and ominous at night now glow with warm and inviting light, appearing almost harmless and inviting. _Almost_. John had woken twice in the night to the freight-train like sound of a larger avalanche hurtling down the massif. If ever he allows himself to be momentarily lulled into a sense of safety out here, the mountain makes damned sure to remind him of the realities of how exposed and helpless they all are against the faceless, uncaring forces of the Earth. Savage and desolate, this place is no more habitable for a human than the Moon, save for the fact that there is a breathable atmosphere. John has read many memoirs written by mountaineers of days long past—men who did not get to enjoy such modern luxuries as satellite phones, weather forecast services, or modern high-altitude clothing. Maurize Herzog, whose team had been the first to summit Annapurna I, had lost plenty of flesh and nearly also his life to the effort.

Were they on the opposite side of the massif, they would now be treated to the lovely, wild sight of the Miristi Khola, a turbulent river draining water from the nearby mountains. John has flown over it during summertime; its banks were full of yellow flowers and the sight had taken his breath away. The contrast can be staggering between the lush, green valleys of the Himalayan foothills and the icy mountains which jut out from what resemble Alpine meadows. This south side of the massif is much less scenic, and the Base Camp area prone to enjoying both snow- and rainfall—often on the same day. Here, the hot and humid air arriving from the ocean cool downs and condenses into rain, never able to cross the great barrier of the Earth's highest mountains.

By the time they start setting up their gear before the first steeper section, John is sweating profusely, and the temples of his companion are also glistening. The sunlight is hot, but there is a piercing wind blowing in from the valley that means he couldn't really remove his down layer during the first hour of the ascent. Now, the ice wall and a row of seracs off to the side are offering protecting from the wind, so he lightens his clothing; it'll be easier to climb with less on. He'll have to strap everything to his pack, though, and carry it up.

Once they've cleared this first vertical section, they'll be at the edge of what is known as the West Glacier, from where it's possible to follow a somewhat sheltered couloir up to towards a spur which merges with the main ridge higher up. Thankfully, Annapurna's south side has very few hazardous serac areas and even fewer significant bergschrunds.

There is one hazard John needs to keep in mind right now: Al had reminded him that the couloir can be slippery with lots of loose rocks; even when it looks like it could easily be negotiated without fixed ropes, that would mean taking a huge risk of slipping on something loose just below fresh snow. The snow chute offers protection from the wind but not from avalanches, which have always been one of the top killers on Annapurna.

Since they're already wearing their harnesses and crampons, all that remains is getting the ropes untangled. Somehow, no matter how meticulously they get packed, something always comes loose and knots up.

"So, I guess it's all in a day's work for you, then?" Holmes asks as they start uncoiling a set of 11 millimeter dynamic kernmantle ropes they'll be using for the fixed parts. All the rope needs to be run through their hands once to check for breakages in the outer layer and other issues. Once John has lead the route, he will drop down a static rope they will leave in place as a fixed one.

"Mmh?" John asks, trying to find the end of the 60-metre rope.

"You travel out here, sort out your clients' summit bids, then go back to your life until the next assignment."

"You're assuming there is this life and then another," John points out. "There isn't."

"Surely you've got a place somewhere; London, perhaps? And someone waiting for you there?"

John squints since Holmes is standing in the direction of the sun, having stepped out from the shadow of an overhanging section of the wall they need to skirt as they climb. John has no idea where this sudden inquiry is coming from. "There isn't anyone. And, I really try not to split things in my head like that. When I'm out there, it's all just the same life."

"But surely there are friends, relatives, places you spend time in when not climbing?" Holmes pushes.

"Sure, there's friends, I guess. Not much family."  He knows a lot of people in the climbing community, who he sees when he happens to be working in the same place they're climbing. "You live in London, then?"

"I have a flat in Knightsbridge but rarely spend any time there."

"Fancy. Invite a lot of friends over for candlelight suppers, then?" John snarks gently.

"I don't have 'friends'." Holmes makes the whole concept sound thoroughly distasteful.

"Right." John purses his lips, slightly amused. "Wonder why," he quips quietly, half-hoping Holmes won't even hear it.

He doesn't quite understand the sudden interrogation. Why is Holmes suddenly so interested in him? Unless he wants to be a guide and is keen to know about the lifestyle.

_The moody git wouldn't last a day working with clients._

John has let him be for the most part during the last few days, but every time he sees Holmes he feels an odd flood of fascination and guilt, as though it's his responsibility to change the man's perpetually grim expression.

John has sometimes been miserable, too. _Takes one to know one_. During those times, he had sometimes wished that someone would notice and help him get his mind off the dark clouds. Work helped. Seeing James at the office certainly didn't.

Two days ago, John had found himself wondering about Holmes out loud to Valerie.

"He clearly gets base camp _ennui_ ," she had announced. "James used to be the same."

 _How would you know? You never climbed with him,_ John had thought. Why did Valerie have to keep dragging James into so many conversations?

Sometimes John felt like she was trying to punish him for something. "James _liked_ spending time at Base Camps."

"He's good at pretending," Valerie had dismissed his comment. "He only lets himself look sad when he thinks nobody can see him. He told me that if he could climb without any waiting periods—just go someplace and head up like big wall climbers do—then he would do it like that, always, but you preferred these expeditions. He said that fighting the _ennui_ kept getting harder and harder."

That's not the way John remembers things. In his recollections, James was always the social butterfly of Base Camp, sometimes up to the point that John had to tell him, flat-out, that he wanted some quiet time instead of meeting up with others all the time.

Now, Valerie was claiming that James was doing all that just to find a distraction. John isn't buying it about his ex, but with Holmes, getting stri crazy might well be behind this sudden enthusiasm for company. He has certainly kept to himself long enough to get a bit, well, lonely?

It's obvious to John that the man is socially awkward. That's probably why he's suddenly asking such personal questions. John's knee-jerk reaction is to protect his privacy, but…

_What's the harm in having a bit of a chat?_

"Look, Holmes––"

"Sherlock."

"What?"

"'Holmes' is what everyone calls my idiot brother. I prefer Sherlock."

"And you waited two weeks to point that out?"

"I wasn't sure if we'd have dealings with one another beyond the absolutely necessary."

_What changed your mind?_

John ties the end of the rope to his harness with a figure-of-eight knot.

"I was fully prepared to lead," Holmes— _Sherlock_ —protests.

"I'm sure you were, but the ropes are my responsibility. I'll let you do a pitch once we've gotten started with this."

He glances up the mountainside. A veil of snow is blowing off the summit, wider and thicker than yesterday. The wind must have picked up. Down here, they're nicely sheltered by the massif, but the temperature might soon be plummeting.

Sherlock looks slightly disapproving when John offers him the rope to clip to an ATC for belying, but he says nothing further in protest.

"On belay," he announces courteously.

"Climbing," John replies as climbing etiquette dictates, grabs his two axes, and kicks the front crampon of his left foot into the ice wall. There are only about eight metres of near vertical slope before they can continue walking up. They will need to be connected by a length of rope for safety, but proper belaying won't be required.

It takes about forty minutes for John to gradually make his way up, inserting ice screws and carabiners along the way and clipping his rope to them. Once above the crux, he uses two screws in a V-shape to drill a passageway into an edge in the icy to create a naked A-thread rappel anchor.

Their conversation is at a standstill since John can't really look down to address his belayer, and the work is making him breathless. Still, this is easy. A few kilometres higher, every step will be agony and cause him to feel as though he's been buried alive in an airless box.

Once John has secured himself to the top of the section with a colourful sling, they reverse the belay so that Sherlock can climb up. It takes him only fifteen minutes to do so since John has scouted out a route and secured the rope.

Once he's standing beside John, Sherlock doesn't seem to be nearly as breathless. Then again, he hadn't had to hang from the wall in precarious positions, twisting in the ice screws and other equipment.

They start the trudge up the snow-covered thirty-degree slope towards the next section that might need new ropes.

"So, no friends, but–– " John starts, "––is there a…significant other in London? Girlfriend or boyfriend who feeds you up for these trips?" 

 _Some lingerie model waiting to whisk you home in a private plane?_ John wonders. 

Holmes looks dismissive. "No, there isn't. Is that what you think girlfriends and boyfriends are supposed to do, feed you up?" The P pops sarcastically.

 _Definitely not,_ John thinks. 

James is—was?—a terrible cook, and for their climbing trips John always sorted out all the food-related and other logistics. If anyone was being fed up, it was James. "Well, nobody's waiting for me at my place in Kathmandu, either. It's just what would pass for a bedsit in London, though I could get something nicer cheaply. I never spend much time there; the boss keeps my calendar packed."

"No wife, then?" Holmes asks carefully.

"Not my... area," John elects to say.

"So, you're not involved with that Frenchwoman?"

John's brows hitch up. "Valerie? No. Really not. What makes you think––"

"There seems to be considerable tension between the two of you." Sherlock is glancing at John over his shoulder as he speaks. "I apologise if I deduced wrong. I assumed your relationship had hit the rocks."

"I used to date climbers. Nobody else would put up with this. I've seen marriages crack apart even just because someone couldn't say no to K2."

"Either you know what it's like, or you can't understand the risks."

"Exactly."

"The boss used to be a climber, then?" Sherlock asks.

"Why do you think that?"

" _'I used to date climbers_ '—it seemed obvious there is a history there between the two of you."

Why the hell would Sherlock trouble his head with who John has dated and who he hasn't?

 _Maybe it's because the guy's got nothing of the sort going on for himself._ "None of your business. Why are you so interested, anyway?"

Suddenly, the obvious explanation occurs to John. He has been propositioned by clients, but Sherlock's behaviour seems so odd and all over the place that it doesn't feel like a come-on. Still, it's possible, considering how awkward everything with Sherlock always is. "You weren't suggesting we––"

Sherlock stops, readjusts a crampon while studying John's expression. He has momentarily removed his sunglasses despite the retina-piercing sunlight reflected off the slope. "Oh–– Oh, no. I consider myself married to my climbing career––"

John is now embarrassed and wants to backtrack. He wouldn't hear the end of it if James though he was hitting on clients. "I didn't mean––"

An uncomfortable silence falls.

Sherlock puts his sunglasses back on but doesn't continue walking. "Look, _John_ –– I am no good at this. Attempting to engage. I found myself wondering if this would work, today, just the two of us, since—·as I told you—I couldn't take another idle day down there. As usual, I am making a mess of things."

"No, no, it's… It's all fine, really."

"I don't like having to accommodate other people when climbing."

"You could have headed out on your own today, then," John suggests. His tone is a bit biting.

"Yes, perhaps that would have been for the best." Sherlock starts walking again and now John can't see his expression anymore, only the back of his bright blue down jacket.

"I do appreciate the help," John calls out after him, hoping to remedy the situation.

Sherlock won't like him, won't enjoy his company because he clearly enjoys nobody else besides himself, but both of them sulking for the rest of the day will make this a shitty day and John is not having it. Not when he gets to be out here, in such beautiful weather, doing a bit of relatively stress-free work that actually furthers their goals. This should be a nice day out, and Holmes— _Sherlock, damn it_ —is ruining it.

"Do you solo on rock routes as well, then?" John asks loudly enough that he can be certain Sherlock has heard him.

"No. I'm not an idiot."

"Yet you won't climb mountains with a partner or a group."

"I did explain my reasoning by the campfire when the lot of you inquired about it. Even in scuba diving there is now a movement promoting self-sufficiency instead of putting your life in the hands of a randomly assigned partner who could be an idiot."

"Why without oxygen? What does it matter if one summits without it or not?"

"Needing it or thinking I need it would mean that my body isn't fit enough to withstand the strain. Doesn't it matter to you how you get up there?"

"Any way in which humans can go up to the cruising altitude of an aeroplane and not die is fine with me and impressive enough. We need lots of equipment, weather info, and all that, anyway. I don't see that oxygen is cheating any more than those things are. Why use fixed ropes set up by someone else? Why isn't that cheating?"

"Because fixing ropes is something I could very easily do myself. I don't need to prove that to me or anyone else. It's a luxury I allow myself, and a safety contingency for the descent. I try to avoid using them, but if it means getting a bigger safety margin, then why not."

Sherlock is now sounding much less insane than he had at the campfire.

"What about a partner?" John asks. "Surely there's someone out there whose skills and judgment you could trust?"

"Never met anyone with whom I would have wanted to spend as much time as a summit bid requires. My tolerance for social interaction is quite low; I find it terribly taxing."

 _No wonder you chose a_ _hobby in which you're too busy trying to breathe to chat with anyone_.

"I like the quiet out here," John echoes his statement. "I can just go to my tent and zip it up and people will respect that. There's enough quiet time, especially in the higher camps."

"You always have the option of interacting with others when you want to," Holmes says cryptically, making it sound to John as if he doesn't.

 _'I don't_ ' seems to be the unspoken ending to that sentence.

John thinks about what Sherlock had said earlier about climbing essentially being his whole life. To do it, he needs at least some others around him to provide the services he needs, but he deliberately shuns those people. Something about his behaviour makes John suspect it's not just because Sherlock deliberately _wants_ to be alone all the time. _Who'd want such a thing?_

Does he travel to the loneliest places on Earth because there, his own loneliness seems like a choice, a natural entity? _How long can someone endure a life like that?_

John can't help wondering what came first: being an arsehole or sticking to the arsehole role because it explains things—because it's an easy way to avoid even having to try to get along with other people? Is it simply less embarrassing for Sherlock deliberately to evict everyone from his vicinity than to face the fact that there aren't that many people who want to be in his life and company?

Is John supposed to _pity_ him, now?

 _No._ John is quite certain that would be the last thing someone as fiercely independent as Sherlock Holmes would want.  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bergschrund = Apart from being a bitch of a word to spell, this is a crevasse at the junction of a glacier or snowfield with a steep upper slope. A synonym for it is a rimaye.
> 
> couloir = A narrow gully with a steep gradient in mountainous terrain
> 
> kernmantle = Climbing ropes nowadays tend to be of this rope type. The word comes from German: kern means core and mantel means sheath. These ropes have a woven interior core which provides the tensile strength, and a protective sheath which will protect the core from getting abraded and otherwise worn in use. 
> 
> The rope IS the climber’s lifeline. Before climbing, you are supposed to check through the whole thing, making sure the sheath isn’t broken because that might signal that there’s an injury to the mantle as well. You should never step on a climbing rope—that might grind bits of gravel etc through the sheath into the mantle and over time, it can harm it and you can’t even see the breaks. Climbing ropes should never be used for anything else than climbing—they’re not for towing a car, for instance!
> 
> Static ropes don’t stretch when a climber falls and the rope goes taut. Dynamic ropes do stretch, lessening the risk of injury. One should never lead climb a technical part of a route on a static rope. Fixed ropes tend to be static because hanging on to them might stretch dynamic ones. I can’t say for certain when mountain climbers would employ dynamic ropes, but I assume that they are sometimes necessary. Hence there may be inadvertent artistic licence used in this chapter when it comes to choosing between the two types. [Here’s a very nice guide to climbing ropes](https://www.vdiffclimbing.com/basic-rope/).
> 
> crux = The most difficult bit in a climbing route, the crowning glory of the route’s difficulty
> 
> I kid you not—the term IS naked A-thread rappel anchor. Here is [a man named Steve creating one](https://www.neice.com/2018/01/make-naked-a-thread-rappel-anchor/).


	8. A Rope of Sand

 

 _"Mountains have a way of dealing with overconfidence."_  
– Hermann Buhl

 

They arrive at the next section requiring technical climbing. As promised, John passes the end of the rope to Sherlock along with a set of ice screws. Unsurprisingly, the man has a handsome collection of ice screws, pitons, rock climbing cams and nuts hanging in the rack on his harness, but John wants to use their company's equipment because he can personally vouch for it having properly maintained or just bought in new.

After Sherlock ties the rope to his harness and changes on a pair of thinner gloves while John attached the rope to an ATC, they go through the ritual of announcing climbing and belaying. Sherlock then swings his axes into the ice wall and makes his first cramponed toe kick to gain a foothold. They're both wearing helmets on top of woollen caps; near the summit they will need so many layers of clothing that they won't be able to do so. Fixed ropes should ensure that they can make do without.

"So, how do you feel about Annapurna?" John shouts in what he hopes is an encouraging tone, quickly giving his belayee more slack on the rope. He needs to adjust his rope handling technique to Sherlock's speed; he's making quick progress up the route, even though the wall is curving up to being slightly negative.

"My feelings about it are irrelevant to climbing it," Sherlock shouts down. "They won't affect its weather system, its avalanche risk or anything else."

"But, they will affect how likely you are to push yourself as far as you can go to get there," John argues.

He's not certain Sherlock has heard his words; he's now about six metres above, grunting as he drags himself over an overhanging ledge. If this was a rock wall in a warmer climate, he'd likely move much more gracefully, but now he finds much less purchase for his feet in his clunky boots and having to drag up many kilograms of gear adds to the laboriousness of the climb.

It takes half an hour for John to follow him up even though there are now ropes in place; Sherlock had led the route in twenty. _No wonder he prefers to climb alpine-style._

When John scrambles back to his feet on a snow balcony after negotiating the last metre of the overhang, Sherlock is looking up the bright white slopes spreading around them.

"I have to admit I've been looking forward to this one. Kanchenjunga's death statistics after 1990 are bleaker, but Annapurna does offer very particular challenges. I enjoyed Nanga Parbat, but that's the one I least want to do again. I'd wanted to try my hand at Rupal, but when I saw it…Changed my plan to Diamir."

John nods, unclipping his jumar from the rope. Nanga Parbat, the Earth's ninth highest mountain, can compete with any other eight-thousander in technical difficulty. It's southern flank—the so-called Rupal Face—is the world's highest mountain face, rising 4 600 metres from the mountain's base up to the summit. It has everything from hair-raising, massive rock ridges, hanging glaciers and very steep and exposed ice sections. The mountain's two other major faces—the Diamir and the Rakhiot—are only marginally easier to ascend, but they do offer more shelter and possibilities for setting up higher camps.

"I'd pick K2 as my least favourite to repeat," John muses, trying to catch his breath. The outstandingly exposed higher parts of the world's second highest mountain, especially a section called the bottleneck, still appear in his nightmares. Most mountaineers would agree that, in terms of technical difficulty, K2 has no rival. The final push to the summit is relentless, and the view of the slopes down below plummeting straight down to the valley in steep angles without any terraced parts to stop a fall would put the fear of God in any climber. There is a serac up high on the popular Abruzzi spur route John had taken which looks like it might crack off at any moment. Seeing such a Damocle's sword while hanging on to dear life to old, decrepit ladders is not an experience he'd ever like to repeat. It's also a terribly exposed peak, so the winds up there can be among the fiercest in the Himalayas, easily whisking a climber off the icy, towering hulk of the summit like a leaf.

"You've not been there yet, have you?" John asks.

"I have wanted to do the Southwest pillar but haven't been able to find an expedition to cater to my needs. In a pinch, the South-Southeast spur would be an agreeable option."

John shakes his head in disbelief. Clearly, safety doesn't factor in to Sherlock's route selection: the Southwest pillar, summited only a handful of times, has been described even by one of the greatest mountaineers in history, Reinhold Messner, as downright suicidal.

"Isn't it enough to pick the most reasonable route, and to get to the summit and back?" John asks.

Sherlock shrugs. "What would be the point of it all, if I just kept doing what everyone else has already done? I will never be accepted into the community or remembered fondly, so if I am to make my mark, it has to be through feats in climbing. Other people are never permanent fixtures in one's life; they could be gone in a second, but pioneering achievements are the things that live forever. All I can do is carve a place for myself in history; in the company of others all I'd do is to try to elbow my way in, and they never accept me, no matter what my achievements are. Alone protects me and protects others from doing idiotic things on my behalf. Things I never asked for."

John digs out a bottle of water and quenches his thirst. "That's just pretty fucking bleak. Your life is worth the same as everyone else's up here—worth more than anything. More than summiting. More than having some record to your name."

Sherlock looks sceptical and John realises he's not going to change his opinion, no matter how hard he argues. He looks restless to start climbing again.

"What is the point, then, for you?" Sherlock asks surprisingly politely.

"Getting to enjoy the experience with a controlled amount of danger. Having nice people to share the downtime with. Going places, seeing the world. Staying alive to see even more of it," John can't resist adding pointedly.

"Until something happens, and it's all over. All I can hope is to achieve _something_ before that happens," Sherlock argues.

John battles with himself whether to mention any of what Al North had said to him about Sherlock's mind set. Besides, Sherlock is not a regular client so regardless of what doubts John might have, he couldn't really pull the man out of the summit bid.

Not that he would want to. Clearly, the man has the skills and the fitness to pull Annapurna I off.

"I want to see everyone on the summit, but most of all, I want to get everyone back down afterwards. _Everyone_ ," he tells Sherlock, and can't help sounding a little bit pleading.

He doesn't get a nod in reply. Instead, the pair of blue-green eyes that sometimes look grey when the weather is cloudy enough, fix on him, and John thinks he finds a flicker of that elusive sadness again in the depths of the gaze.

"That's not in your power to ensure, John. You'll only set yourself up for disappointment if you think everyone is your responsibility.The mountain may have other ideas."

John wants to grab his collar, to tell him that it fucking well _is_ his responsibility since that's what people pay him for, but he's taken aback by the frighteningly calm resignation in Sherlock's expression as he looks past John out into the horizon before accepting the end of a short, two-person safety rope they need to clip into their harnesses for the next section.

"You can't change the course of someone's life out here—or boost your sense of self-worth by keeping others safe," Sherlock tells him, and the words bite into John like the icy wind. "We climb this peak, and then we get to leave it behind—maybe that means all of us, maybe it doesn't. If we don't all make it back, then we mourn, and we move on, because those people made the choice for themselves to climb, not you. You should give up your old, romantic notions of some unwritten mountain code because it won't make the slightest bit of difference to survival no matter how much you try to enforce it on everybody. If I were you, I'd work on respecting the choices of others."

John dislikes his lecturing tone. He steps closer to meet the challenge in Sherlock's gaze. "If someone gets into trouble, I will help them in whatever way I can. You don't get to decide against it, not for me, not for anyone."

"We all get to decide for ourselves whether we do this or not, whether we go for a summit bid or wait for another window. I know what happened to you out here years ago. Mark Wick made his choice, and the only thing you should regret is not respecting it."

It sounds like a warning, and hearing Wick's name knocks whatever argument John might have raised next right out of his mind.

Sherlock pivots on his heel, fresh powdery snow crunching under his steps as he starts walking up the slope again. John can't help but follow, since they're tied together.  
  


  
-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-

  
The next morning dawns cloudy and cold; there's a taste of impending heavy snowfall in the air.

 _It's fine_ , John tries to reassure himself. _Better now than on summit day_. The cold is not a problem, but any cloud cover can be unpredictable in terms of snowfall, and any snowfall could mean a whiteout that can disorient climbers and cause them to accidentally walk off a ledge.

He heads to the mess tent though it's early yet for breakfast. Pushing aside the unzipped door, he has a double take when he sees Valerie and Sherlock already nursing cups of coffee while pouring over weather maps and laptops and radar printouts.

"Morning?" he suggests.

One of the Sherpas waves to him from the kitchen area, pointing at the already steaming coffee pot on a gas stove.

"Yes please, in a minute", he replies.

Valerie straightens her back. "A slight alteration to our route and our summit bid starting time has been suggested."

"By whom?"

Holmes pushes his palms against the table and stands back, crossing his arms. "By me."

John goes to stand on the opposite side of the table. "What's going on here?"

"As I said, we were discussing an alternate plan."

"No alternate plans exist, unless they go through me."

Valerie turns her laptop screen to face John, and points at an image of one of the higher slopes. "Holmes pointed out that the avalanche records might suggest this section is more unstable in the late mornings, so we might want to head up a few hours earlier."

"Before the sunlight hits that section," Holmes adds, pointing at a more vertical part of their planned route higher above. "The notch below it is exposed to wind all the time, which means that any snow that might thicken the ice collar when it melts under the sun will blow away. Yesterday, when we went high up enough to see some of it, I thought it looked structurally weak. Everyone has been just looking at the snow sheet shapes and ignored where the cut-off for the first roll-down of snow that could trigger a proper avalanche might be."

"So you just waltz in and solve it all?" John doesn't curb the sarcasm.

"It's a good assessment," Valerie says with a shrug.

"Isn't this what we pay _you_ for, instead of asking our clients to assess weather factors?" John snaps at her.

" _Excuse me_?" Valerie's tone rises a bit in pitch.

"He's not bound to our schedules, so why share? He doesn't believe in group work, and thinks it's every man for himself, so what the hell is this little conference of yours for? You think you need to walk all over me, instead of talking to me first before you go on confirming his ideas and making them sound as though a decision has been made?" John asks, waving off the mug of coffee Tenzing is offering him.

Valerie leans slightly across the table. "You want to do this now, John? Really?"

"Do what?"

"Listen to yourself. You're bitter, you're moody, you don't have any tolerance for anyone else's opinions. You're not instilling enthusiasm in the clients, you're sucking it out of them. You're allowing your dislike of me affect your decision-making. You've hated me from day one––"

 _Wonder why_.

"––which I can't help, I think, but before this trip you've always been professional, we've always been able to work together, but now I feel like you are on my case all the time, if that's the right phrase. You're not using me and Mince as sounding boards—you're brooding alone, and you're not making decisions together with us. James worries about that, and about you seeing ghosts up here. Maybe you'll chase them or maybe, to avoid them, you might get a bit… How do you say it… over-cautious about the summit bid."

Furious, John spreads his arms in a histrionic gesture. "Well, why the _fuck_ did James put me in charge, then, if he thinks my judgement is shot to shit?"

"You're still the best he's got. The best we've got. I'm here and Mince is here to make sure you stay focused. James knows you can do this, if you keep your head straight, if you–– _rester sain d'esprit_ , " Valerie spits out in frustration, her English failing her. It rarely does, except when she's highly emotional.

"She said: _'if you stay sane_ '," Sherlock translates.

"Stay the fuck out of this," John snaps at him before turning back to Valerie. "So, James gave you some secret bloody assignment to make sure I manage? How condescending is that?" John is aware that Sherlock is still watching him intently from where he's standing a few steps away from Valerie across the table. Most people would have left, would have given the two of them some privacy to argue but not Holmes. _Of course the bloody not_.

"No, he assigned me to this because no climb benefits more from a good weather person than Annapurna or K2," Valerie argues.

John knows she's right, and it grates on his nerves. "We could have installed the portable weather station and you could have monitored things remotely."

"I still also want to climb it."

"I suppose James doesn't, so isn't that convenient?"

"No, John. He really doesn't want this climb." Valerie's hands have crept to her hips. "Have you asked him why?"

"I'm sure you'll tell me if he doesn't."

"He loves the lifestyle and the community, but he never had your daring or your ambition. And, he feels like you're still not understanding that, that you're still punishing him for it."

"We're still friends," John tries to defend himself.

"It's more complicated than 'friends', as you probably realise. He didn't know how to make you understand. You are so much in your head when you're out here; you wouldn't listen." Valerie sounds pained, as though she has taken on some of James' old frustrations to carry.

"So, instead of telling me these things, his solution was to say nothing, and cheat on me. With you." Anger swells, sinks its ragged teeth into John's heart. "The two of you blame me, then, for the fact that he couldn't open his fucking mouth to talk about what he wanted. So, that's why he needs you to speak for him, to make excuses, to pin it all on me!"

"You cheated on him with every mountaintop you lusted after, John! He told me he felt like all you ever wanted him for was a warm body in a tent, someone to adore you for your feats. Someone, _anyone!_ It was good, it was really good with you at first, he says, but he got tired waiting and being scared for you. He's a kind man—you _know_ he is. "

John isn't so sure. Is it kindness to choose money over safety when it comes to picking clients and to then dump the responsibility over to John? Is it kindness to dump someone without a word?

"He didn't want you force you to make a choice, so he made it for you. You need someone who is as desperate to be out here all the time as you are, and that person is not James."

" _Desperate_? I'm not fucking desperate!"

Valerie looks resigned. "I don't like being in the middle. I know you never talked, and you should have. I can't fix that. Nobody can fix that. It is what it is," Valerie pleads.

John suddenly can't maintain his rage. Instead, a sense of finality sinks in. There's no point in discussing this. There will never be closure. He realises he's been hoping that one day, he and James could sort this out—not to get back together, but to make some sense of the strange course of events. Finally, it is sinking in that this will never happen, because that's not who the two of them are. They never understood each other, so after drifting apart, how could that change? He can't even be as mad at Valerie as he had been a moment ago because some small parts of what she's saying do make sense. He had deliberately ignored the way James never had seemed to be in any hurry to start a summit bid, the way he seemed to fall into a nervous funk when the schedule was finally decided, and how easily he aborted a bid at the slightest suspicion anyone expressed.

Maybe she has been wedging herself into the communications between John and James because she sees it and John hasn't. James _is_ kind in that he would never fire John no matter how awkward he felt about the two of them still working together. They built this business together, and that's always seemed sacred to the man. Much holier than their joint climbing achievements.

"And what it is, is…shit," John sighs. What is he supposed to say, now? That he's sorry that a grown man couldn't speak his mind? That James forced himself to do things many would kill for an opportunity to do, such as scaling Everest?

James had severed their relationship. Maybe it's John who needs to cut the final strands of the rope connecting them.

He glances around; Sherlock has finally seen sense and left the tent.

"James hated the waiting, because it made him scared," Valerie explains. "The longer he had to be there, facing the icefalls and the crevasses and hearing the avalanches at night and hearing about people who went up and didn't come down, the more scared he got. He kept doing it for you, John." Valerie closes the lid of her laptop. "K2 was the final straw. The statistics kept him up at night. He didn't want even you to climb it, but he could never try to guilt you into withdrawing from the attempt, especially when you had booked clients for the expedition. But, he couldn't bring himself to do the Savage Mountain just for you. It was too much. When he got out of Nepal for Paris, he says it was the final shift of his perspective. I didn't know you were together. I didn't know he had someone. He told me he simply worked with his ex."

John lets out a slow breath. He doesn't know whether Valerie wants or needs his forgiveness, but she's offering an olive branch all the same. "Okay."

Maybe a part of him had known that it was over before Paris—a slow death instead of a final flashbang grenade of a breakup. Truth be told, he'd realised on his descent from K2 the summit that he hadn't thought of James even once when he had stood up on the top. The Savage Mountain was supposed to be the greatest triumph for the firm, and a formidable entry in both their climbing CVs, but John hadn't even spared a single thought to a man who'd been his partner in so many ways for years when he had celebrated their summit success.

Climbing brought them together. Perhaps it's just as well that it broke them apart.

"I don't dislike you, John. It was just hard to watch him deal with everything. Maybe you kind of left him years before I met him. What is that English saying about having cake?"

"To have your cake and eat it, too," John says quietly.

"Maybe it applies." Valerie shrugs. "Maybe that's what you tried to do with him. I don't know. I wasn't there, and time has passed. _De l'eau est passee sous les ponts_ , as you English say."

Though his anger is evaporating, John still doesn't like how Valerie is trying to analyse him, to put words in his mouth, to pretend to know things about their relationship. She's being presumptuous, even if she might mean well. "It's not that fitting," he counters, arms crossed.

There _are_ things he'd seen in James, things he had ignored, maybe even tried to change. He's a businessman just like John is a climber. John doesn't like discussing the money, doing the PR, trying to chat up potential clients at travel fairs. He doesn't like monetizing the mountains, whereas James sees nothing wrong in that.

In all honesty, sometimes it's hard to even understand how the hell had they ended up together in the first place.

_I need to let go of it all. Let go of him._

Valerie sighs and points to her laptop. "Just look at the weather data and the satellite photos. Forget about James and Holmes and look at the facts. You saw the snow sheets yesterday."

"I'm sure you're right. You know your stuff. If _you_ think we should make adjustments, then I shouldn't argue," John relents. The thought of relying on someone else's information has never made him entirely comfortable, but he has seen what Val can do and she is very, very good at her job. He needs to trust her, especially because Valerie and James are not the only ones having doubts about his judgement.

What Holmes had said yesterday about Mark Wick had hit a sore spot. He does find his thoughts shifting to the lost client a lot during the past few days; Valerie's talk of ghosts is not far off the mark. It would be easy to imagine such creatures residing here, where so many have died.

Valerie watching him starts feeling like too heavy a scrutiny, so John heads for the door. "I need some air."

He gets a few feet out of the tent when hasty steps start following him. He curses; right now, he feels too raw, too exposed to put on his mountain guide's game face.

It's Sherlock, who falls into the same step, hands demurely clapped together behind him back. "I will be taking off at a very different time as the rest of the group, of course."

"Yeah," John says, shoving his hands into his down gilet pockets as he heads towards the medical tent. "I assume you'll start up around the time we leave Camp Three?"

Holmes' alpine-style summit bid will be quick and brutal—in the style that K2 is often climbed. He'll go up and return down low in one go, lowering the risk of altitude sickness but requiring speed and stamina. He's certainly got the conditioning and physique for it, whereas John is more suited for a gradual battle against the mountain in expedition style.

John would prefer some space for his thoughts right now, but Sherlock is clearly so oblivious to social conventions that it's probably no use hoping he'll take a hint. Had he been waiting for John by the mess tent? If yes, then he has probably heard the rest of his conversation with Valerie.

John stops and turns to face his persistent companion. "Look, I actually happen to like having people around when climbing," John excuses himself in an exasperated tone. "But not right now." He wonders if this hint will get through.

" _Any_ people?" Sherlock glances back towards the mess tent.

" _Some_ people."

"As a guide, you can't really choose your company. You could get a sponsor, or you could start your own business—why do you stay in this arrangement?"

"Summit Fever's family. We've worked together for years."

"It didn't seem that way three minutes ago."

"It's not––None of that's any of your business. It was unprofessional from Valerie—and me—to have it out in front of you like that; I apologise. I do get why you'd opt out of expedition climbing; camp politics are a fucking drag sometimes. But, there's still strength in numbers."

"Those numbers don't have to include half a dozen less able climbers hoisted onto your proverbial shoulders."

"What's it to you, anyway? You've made your opinion clear before, so spare me the lecture."

His biting tone seems to startle Sherlock.

"I didn't mean to cause strife." Sherlock's statement sounds rehearsed, a cookie-cutter response.

 _Why are we still discussing this?_ John wonders. His embarrassment over arguing in front of a client is getting worse by the minute. "Let me guess: you don't mean to cause strife but somehow, you _always_ do. No wonder people kick you out of summit teams."

He regrets the words when he sees the impact they have: before masterfully concealing his reaction behind a cold mask of indifference, surprise and hurt flicker in Sherlock's oddly coloured eyes.

Then, they narrow as shoulders tuck back and a cold expression takes over. "How do you _focus_ when you have to keep an eye on everyone else? Don't you feel cheated out of your own climbing experience? Constantly babysitting others, you can't possibly enjoy the moment that _you're_ doing this for to the fullest! The summit is almost a blink-and-you'll-miss-it stage of a climb even when doing it alone. If you're shepherding idiots and making sure they get their selfies and their country flags up to clutter the mountain, what's in it for you?"

It all sounds like a taunt—as though John's harsh words just now have made Sherlock hungry for vengeance.

John stares at him, sniffs, crinkles his nose. _One more word and I'll–––_

The look he's giving Sherlock seems to make the other climber retreat.

"Climbing alone or just with a partner, you could tailor the summit bids to each other's strengths and weaknesses, and to alter plans more easily to fit weather and snow conditions," Sherlock offers, and the malice is now gone.

 _He's right_ , John has to admit. _Of course he's right._

His work hasn't felt like proper climbing for a long time; mostly, it feels like running a particularly dangerous risk management project. He can't shake the feeling that he's on duty, not even at the summit, and that means his own climbing goals always come after everyone else's wants and needs. "I know all that, but this is the way things are. I have to work; nobody's going to pay me just for existing." He cocks his head towards the mess tent. "Don't let this change your opinion of Val. She's brilliant at what she does."

"So are you," Holmes says plainly. "Before signing with Summit Fever, I looked into your career, particularly before you signed up as a tourist mule. Interesting, to say the least. Lots of wasted potential."

John gives him a dirty look. "Thanks. That's really fucking flattering."

"Wasted potential that's _still there_. Who knows what you could have achieved if James Sholto hadn't been dragging you down."

"He's a good boss––"

"But a well-below-mediocre mountaineer. Your early career was indicative of someone who could become a pioneer, but then you turned to safe options and standard solutions when you began climbing with Sholto and working as a guide. Personally, I find that compromise never gets me where I want to go, since it's always based on the weaknesses of others."

"Modest, eh."

"Your neurotic worries about saving others at least signifies that you've understood that climbing with someone who's not as good as you will always be about dependency—about you giving things up for them. Your clients are a noose around your neck, whereas someone like Valerie is an asset. Or Mince."

_Or you?_

"Sure." John kicks a rock towards the snowy massif looming across the dry river bed. He still has no idea what Holmes' game here is. "I'll talk to Val some more later about the route. Looks like we might have a summit window next week, if the weather doesn't make any dramatic changes.

He'll talk to her about the weather, nothing else. He needs to keep his mind off James and the past since he can't afford to let his mood be dragged down any further.

He glances at Sherlock, who is now headed for the comms tent.

What had Sherlock really been trying to say? Why deliver such a lecture?

John shakes his head. Sherlock isn't climbing in his group, so the mystery of him is yet another thing John needs to stop thinking about if he's to keep his priorities straight and his head together.  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ATC = air traffic controller. A belaying device. [Here’s how to use one](https://www.instructables.com/id/How-to-Belay-With-an-ATC-Belay-Device/).
> 
> The issue of whether mountaineers use helmets on the summit bid is [addressed in this post](http://www.mountainguides.com/everest-advice-from-climbers.shtml). 
> 
> A negative wall is another term for an overhanging wall. [At the start of this video](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=C6b3RrHqeEM) Chris Sharma’s doing some negative walls.
> 
> Here’s [a short history of people trying to scale Nanga Parbat](https://www.thoughtco.com/nanga-parbat-9th-highest-mountain-world-755206).
> 
>  _"De l'eau est passee sous les ponts."_ = Water has passed under the bridge. Apologies to any French speakers if I got something wrong in this chapter; French is not among the languages I speak.


	9. Two Left Feet

 

> _“Climbing a mountain represents a chance to be briefly free oneself of the small concerns of our common lives, to strip off nonessentials, to come down to the core of life itself. Food, shelter, and friends—these are the essentials, these plus faith and purpose and a deep and unrelenting determination.”_  
>  ―  Mateo Cabello
> 
>  

Carrying a thermos of hot water and some of the nicer teabags he'd brought from Kathmandu, John is on his way back to the medical tent. He'd seen Al North earlier, who is still suffering from a nearly rib-breaking mountain cough and fatigue. There are no other symptoms of altitude sickness, so they can wait and see if things improve before their weather window arrives. John is sceptical about Al's chances of success: according to Mince, the older climber had barely scraped by during their Tent Peak climb. He and Al had agreed to reserve the final judgement call on the night before the summit climb. At least John can be sure that Al will accept it if his medical judgement says his patient shouldn't head up.

Walking the path that has formed through the area of personal tents, he comes face to face Sherlock who is sitting in a deck chair, bare feet raised onto a thin insular pad placed on a rock. The reason for such podiatric sunbathing appears obvious: the painful-looking blisters sprinkled on his toes and the outer sides of his heels.

"Those look like they could use a bit of attention," John points out, stopping to have a look.

Sherlock removes his sunglasses and squints as he regards John sceptically. "They'll be fine. It was so warm I neglected to wear my middle sock layer when having a look at the western edge of the fringe glacier yesterday."

"Happens to the best of us," John replies with a smile.

He's glad to have an excuse to talk to Sherlock since there is some residual guilt for the turns their conversation two days earlier had taken. The man had kept to himself afterwards, evasive and quiet whenever John was present. Not that he probably became any more sociable in the presence of other Summit Fever team members.

John is meticulous with his own feet after once experiencing a set of blisters on summit day similar to those Holmes is now sporting. The pain had kept him awake and alert on the climb, but the agony had much lessened his enjoyment of that day. "I'll sort those out. Come on," he prompts and points the thermos in the general direction of the medical tent.

When Holmes makes no move to even lean forward in his chair, John grabs the man's hiking boots from the ground and drops them into his lap. "All part of the service you paid for. Meet me in the medical tent in five."

Holmes blinks, as though stupefied that John refuses not to be put off by his obvious reticence.

  
-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-

 

Handling other people's smelly feet is hardly John's favourite thing in the world, and most doctors in the Western world would not attend themselves to such matters as blisters. But, out here, feet are outstandingly important, and when wrecked, can contribute to accidents and even death. Plenty of climbers need medical help with their blisters, their frostbite or sprained ankles; better to nip potential problems in the bud than lose toes.

John fills a plastic washing-up bowl with snow-melted water an inch deep and pours in half of the contents of his thermos. He warms his hands in the steam for a moment; in the shadow it's chilly, but in the sun, one can manage with only a T-shirt or less. Mince is currently basking in the sun right outside the mess tent wearing just a pair of jeans.

Ten minutes have passed since his encounter with Sherlock, and John starts suspecting he isn't even going to appear.

Finally, the door flap of the tent shifts and Sherlock slips in before remaining by the door, left wrist decorously clasped by the fingers of his right hand in front of him. He doesn't say a word, simply looks to John for instructions.

"Shoes off, sit down," John prompts, pointing to a folding chair he has placed in the back. He sighs and tips the rest of the thermos of hot water into the basin to bring it back up to some degree of warmth; tea will have to wait.

He doesn't usually give his patients foot baths, but it's his own favourite thing after a long day of climbing, and Sherlock's feet had looked such a fright that it might lessen the pain.

"Those new?" John asks, nodding towards the hiking shoes Sherlock drops next to the chair.

"Not new, but it appears that they could use some more breaking in. I should have worn my summit boots instead of strapping crampons onto those."

"How far up did you go?"

"Just to the foot of the massif. It gets… crowded here."

John would hardly describe the small Base Camp in the middle of a vast wilderness as cramped, but he knows what Sherlock means. When still waiting for a summit bid, egos can start clashing, and nerves get wound tight. Maybe Sherlock feels the pre-climb jitters worse than others. Even getting a bit closer to the price by hiking or doing rope work can help; it gives a climber a sense of being proactive.

He's frowning as John pushes the basin in front of the stool, then he hisses as he slips his feet in, more from pain than heat since the water is likely just lukewarm.

John lets him just sit for a moment, waiting for the smarting to abate, before grabbing a chair and bringing it close. A towel gets spread on his knee, and he lifts Sherlock's right foot from the water onto it, carefully avoiding the blisters as he dries it. He takes time to appreciate the aesthetics of the man's foot, which is rather like Sherlock himself: lithe, sinewy and sporting well-defined musculature. _Nice arches, too._

The man squirms a little when John starts twisting the sole to inspect the heel. "Ticklish?"

Sherlock says nothing, but a shudder that goes through him might point to the answer being yes at least whether his feet are sensitive. A large blister on the heel has already been punctured by abrading against the shoe, and the dermis underneath is seeping clear fluid. It's not infected, but that is an obvious risk.

John curls his fingers around his forefoot to get a better grip, and suddenly Sherlock _groans_ — downright obscenely—when John's fingertips dig deep into the muscles.

"God, that's––" Sherlock stammers, eyes closed.

John smiles, knowing what he means. Digging fingertips into the soft pads at the ends of the metatarsal bones can feel like heaven after days of climbing and heavy hiking. John does just that, now with his knuckles, grinding them on the soles hard enough to curl the man's toes inward. Sherlock's eyes flutter closed as John maps the soles with his thumbs before stretching the toes upwards.

Sherlock lets his head loll back, cheeks tinted slightly red with obvious pleasure.

John remembers doing this to James and being returned the favour. It often led to more. Up in the mountains, everything between them was always easier, clearer, _raw_. Or, maybe that is just how John remembers it, what he had wanted to believe. Still, he feels that when out climbing, they could talk about things honestly—until they didn't. Until James began focusing more on the business than the, well, _business_. John had never realised there was a distinction—that climbing and the way they earned money were two separate entities—and he can't help resenting James for making it so.

He misses this. These small relationship things.

He splays his fingers on top of Sherlock's foot, thumb trailing the delicate bone structure. He bends the ankle back and forth, testing the integrity of the ligaments.

The warm skin underneath his fingertips makes him ache for more. The touch of lips, pressing up against a warm body inside a sleeping bag. Fingers slid to the hollow of the back, tracing down a spine…

John is startled when he realises he'd gotten so lost in thought that he hadn't noticed his hands had stopped their ministrations. Sherlock is looking at him with curious apprehension, worrying his lower lip.

"Sorry," John says. "I was just. Well."

Sherlock doesn't reply. The spell has been broken, and now they both seem to feel rather exposed.

John decides he shouldn't be embarrassed. Up here, his roles are mixed and many, and he has to be a friend, a doctor, a confidante, a leader and a fellow climber to these people. Besides, what's wrong with a friendly foot rub?

"Nice, isn't it?" he asks, lowering Sherlock's foot back into the water and lifting the other up. He makes sure he replicates carefully what he'd done to the other one. It feels reassuringly easy to slip back into a doctor's role, to borrow confidence from the fact of his profession. He wants to put Sherlock at ease, to reassure him that it's all fine. Perfectly fine.

Sherlock hums in appreciation, gaze wandering idly around the tent.

"Do you pre-tape?" John asks, referring to the habit of some climbers to prevent blisters by using sports tape on vulnerable areas.

"Yes, the big toes. And I trim the nails often."

"The nails are fine. Are your thinner socks cotton? They dry slower than other materials." John has seen plenty of climbers pick cheap socks for the layer closest to their skin and end up with terrible blisters when sweat keeps the socks wet for days.

"No, not cotton, I can't abide that in the innermost layer."

"I'll drain the blisters, then put some molefoam on the heels with holes cut in. I think we can get away with gel and bandages for the smaller blisters. I've put a bit of antiseptic soap in the water, and I prefer to avoid antibiotic creams. If something gets properly infected, oral antibiotics are more effective; all the antibiotic salves do is dampen socks and make matters worse."

"You're the expert." Sherlock makes this sound like a teeth-gritting concession.

John decides to take advantage of this window of opportunity. He can't help worrying about certain comments Sherlock has made—can't shake the feeling that there's an undercurrent to his state of mind that should be addressed. "Has anyone been looking after your health? A regular doctor, someone to whom you could confide?"

"Confide? About what?" There's a challenge in his tone and anger. It's clear that further questions about this from John would not be welcomed.

John puts a towel on the ground and places Sherlock's feet on it."Not trying to pry."

"Then don't."

 _Message received_. Maybe Sherlock only likes talking about himself when there's a reporter about, and the questions have to do with his climbing achievements. He's not shy about prying into other people's personal lives, but apparently that only works in one direction.

It's hard to believe he's single, that he doesn't even have some piece of arm candy waiting out there for when he wants to have a bit of fun, or when he just doesn't want to spend another night alone in a hotel.

 _Or, maybe I'm just projecting my own recent lack of a love life_. Sherlock is undoubtedly attractive, and if this tent was a bar in Kathmandu and he was between work assignments, then maybe…

He'd never hook up with a client, though. He's had no trouble keeping work and leisure separate after he split up with James, and they were together for such a long time, anyway, that John's not been in the game for years. Just like a doctor can't date a patient, he can't quite see how a responsible guide could allow themselves to become emotionally tangled with a client; it might affect their judgement, make them take unnecessary risks. He has seen climbing couples perish because the other one wouldn't stop trying to save the other even against impossible odds. On the other hand, the man whose feet he has just massaged would be the first to remind him that he's _not_ the same sort of client as the others are… _No, just not going there_ , John decides.

They have a short conversation about weather patterns and summit route details while John sorts out the blisters and bandages Sherlock's feet. He takes his time with the task, doing a bit more pressing of his thumb tips against tired, sore muscles, but Sherlock seems to now be schooling his features carefully into complete nonchalance. It's just as well; that obscene first groan had threatened to cause John's cock to make itself known. John has a sense that the brief moment and its immediate aftermath had given him a rare glimpse into the real Sherlock, who isn't quite as aloof—or confident—as he always projects.

Now, the armour is back on. _It takes so little to spook him._

"Thank you," Sherlock says taciturnly when John tapes the last bit of molefoam in place. He digs out a clean, dry pair of socks from his down vest pocket, slips them on, then shoves both his feet and the dangling shoelaces into the hiking boots.

Soon, he's gone without another word.

John decides to go back to the mess tent for more hot water for tea. _Embrace the small pleasures_ , his mother had always said. She had died without ever travelling abroad.

 

-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-

 

Two days later, before sunset, even the nature around them seems expectant. The wind has died down just as Valerie had predicted, and the summit of Annapurna I glistens with the last rays of the sun, completely visible since snow is no longer blowing off the top looking like a bridal veil. It'll be a starry night; the sickle of the moon is visible beside the summit of Machapuchare, and Venus can already be seen near the horizon.

Most of the group have taken their dinner plates outside to sit on the rocks and watch the sunset. As important as the summit climb is, it's the whole experience of their stay in the Sanctuary that should count: living in the moment, enjoying the quiet, savage beauty of remote corner of the world, living rough for weeks at the foot of the majestic towers of ice surrounding them.

In a way, this is the best part of the expedition. There's a promise of a weather window tomorrow, the exhilaration and the excitement, the expectation of the unknown.

Having already eaten, John goes to the medical tent to make sure he has packed everything he wants to carry up with him when they start climbing for Camp Two at eight in the morning. They'll retire early at Camp Three so that they can rise at three in the morning for a summit bid.

He can't help wondering what Sherlock will do in the empty camp once they've gone. He won't start his quick assault on the mountain until nearly a day later, which is when John and the rest will start up from Camp Three. Sherlock will climb faster than them and should reach the summit a few hours after they have begun to descend; he should catch up with the others on his way down. John wants them all to be up the mountain at the same time so that if anyone needs help, it will be available as close as possible. They will all carry radios. Sherlock had protested having one, to which Valerie had replied that he didn't have to use it or even listen to it unless he got into trouble.

John locks an old Nepalese army gun cabinet in which he keeps the expedition pharmacy, blows out the kerosene lantern, and zips up the medical tent.

There's faint music streaming in the clear air from the direction of the mess tent. When John hikes his way there, he finds Valerie and Mince dancing to the tune coming out of Mince's battered smartphone. They don't look very graceful in their thermal gilets, windbreaker pants and hiking boots. Mince is concentrating hard, and Valerie is barking orders at him.

She notices John just as the song ends and Mince goes to loop it back to the beginning.

"He is going to a wedding of a school friend. It's in the Hamptons in New York, very high-class affair. Can you imagine _him_ in a tuxedo?" she chuckles, shaking her head.

"I need to dance with the bride, don't I? The groom's my best mate, and the bride’s so nice, too. And kind of fit, you know. Tom told me I need to dance with all the single bridesmaids, keep them entertained, you know?"

" _All_ of them? I thought you were a gentleman, not a corn dog, or how is it the saying goes?" Valerie berates him.

John bursts out laughing, and Mince joins in.

" _Corn_ dog?" John guffaws. "Yeah, sure, I'm sure that pretty much covers our Mince with the ladies."

"Oi!" Mince protests. "I'll have you know I have left many a lady longing."

"Probably for an escape," John chortles. Mince isn't the sort to be bothered by a bit of teasing. The quirky Kiwi has the quiet confidence of a man who doesn't give a damn what others think. Mince is easily approachable, funny, polite and—like most avid climbers—has a physique which should please most women.

"Some women have no taste," Valerie grins. "Let's try the box step again. It's not working."

John gets a mug of tea and finds a rock from on top of which to watch the lesson. Valerie's exasperation does nothing to dilute the fun Mince is obviously having; his carefree attitude is not satisfying Valerie's teacher streak.

"How can you not know _any_ dances?" she complains.

Mince finally manages to guide her into a turn—just before they would have crashed into the communications tent. "Where would I have learned?"

"We learned at school," Valerie says haughtily. "Everyone had to do dance classes to learn the basics."

"Clearly, your school did not employ very good instructors," rumbles in a baritone.

Sherlock is standing next to the bins by the mess tent, arms crosses and an appraising expression on his features. "I can't even tell whether you are attempting a ballroom closed position or a Viennese waltz hold."

"You think this hippie boy here could ever handle Viennese Waltz?" Valerie asks.

Sherlock strides close to them, and Mince stops trying to shove Valerie around the clearing.

"Your right sides should be facing one another; now, you're standing as though you're trying to mirror each other. Mince, you need to stop splaying your fingers on her back, it looks ridiculous. And, you need to support her hand higher. Your other wrist should be in contact with her underarm, not at the small of her back. If gentlemanly is what you are aiming for, try to avoid making your partner fear that you're trying to grope their arse. And Valerie; even if you're trying to teach him, you should stop trying to lead."

Sherlock rearranges them as though he were posing a pair of store mannequins.

"How do you know all this, man?" Mince asks.

"Eton."

"What's that?" Valerie asks.

"One of the poshest schools in England," John replies.

Sherlock pivots on his heel at the sound of his voice. He didn't seem to have noticed John sitting there.

"I'll ignore your tone," Sherlock quips but doesn't sound as put off as he at the start of their expedition.

"You probably should." John counters, sipping his tea with a quirked-up lip. Perhaps some of the awkwardness is thawing away again. It's almost a shame that summit day is tomorrow; it would have been interesting to see whether he could have actually got to know the secretive man a bit better.

"Music, please," Sherlock prompts.

Mince leans away from Valerie to tap play on his phone.

"What on Earth is that?" Sherlock asks after hearing the opening notes.

"It's the only waltz he has," Valerie replies.

"It's Metallica, man," Mince points out proudly.

"I don't know what that means." Sherlock takes a moment to listen. "Admittedly, the measure signature _is_ three quarters, but the stressed beat is not very well emphasised. This can't have been written as something for people to dance to."

"Yeah, no," Mince chuckles, nodding towards Valerie. "Waltzing really isn't what you do in the mosh pit."

Sherlock blinks, obviously perplexed by the statement. After a moment, he seems to banish the bafflement and reorient himself. "Continue," he prompts with a flick of his wrist.

Mince gives Valerie a cheek-splitting grin; she rolls her eyes but is sporting a smile herself.

"Better—but shorten your step, Mince, when you're going forward; it's hard for Valerie to step back as far. As you see, it's easier to guide her around when she doesn't feel like you're constantly trying to tug her closer by the waist."

Sherlock offers no further instructions after this, just watches as the couple begins to get bolder and more fluid in their movements. Valerie giggles as Mince tries to dip her; she ends up grabbing onto his arms and holding on for dear life before he whips her around for another spin around the clearing.

John stands up, shoves his now empty mug into his pocket, making sure it's the right way up to avoid getting his gilet wet from the drops on the bottom.

He opens his mouth just as Sherlock opens his.

"I need to go––" John begins to excuse.

"I don't suppose you'd––" Sherlock starts enquiring, then snaps his mouth firmly shut. He'd shifted his hand forward just a little, palm forward as though making an inviting gesture, but having been interrupted, he drops his hand to hang limply by his side again. "Never mind," he mutters.

His suddenly diffident tone gives John pause. What had he been trying to ask?

Valerie's quicker than him in making the deduction. She cocks her head towards John. "John doesn't dance," she declares with a snort. "James says he hates it and that he's even worse than Mince here."

John's jaw drops. This is fucking classic Val—one moment they're mending bridges, the next she almost convinces everyone she can be enjoyable company. But then, she's suddenly back to sinking teeth into jugulars.

"That's––I wasn't––," Sherlock manages to blurt out. "Goodnight," he adds hastily, makes a sharp turn and strides towards their tents.

Mince is now showing Valerie something on his phone; their backs are turned to John.

Trying to go for a prickly comeback is too late, now. The moment has passed.

 _Thanks for scaring him off_.

John wonders why he even tries to be optimistic about getting along with Valerie? What the bloody hell does James see in the woman?

He doesn't want James back—it's suddenly so clear that what he wants is to untangle himself from the mess of their relationship. What he's in, now, is a venomous limbo of having to deal with James' complete evasion and Valerie's less than half-passive aggression.

He marches off to the edge of the camp to watch soft clouds moving between the peaks close by. He rubs his fingertips on his forehead, then slides his palms down his face. The dry, rasping whisper of his beard against his fingertips feels calming. In Kathmandu, he showers every day to get the city muck out of his hair and to shed the greasy film that the place seems to create on his skin. Out here, he doesn't get a proper shower in weeks—only quick wash-ups with cloths wetted in vats of warm or cold water. Yet, he doesn't feel dirty or stale.

He needs to focus on the mountain instead of getting tangled up in the pointless psychodramas of Base Camp.

It wouldn't feel right following Sherlock to his tent and trying to talk to him. He should have done it right away; now, it would just be embarrassing.

It's just that Sherlock had retreated so quickly, looked so stricken… Still, from their conversations, it's hard for John to gauge what the man wants, or whether he wants anything. Maybe he's just poking the hornet's nest for fun, or he just doesn't quite know how to deal with others. He certainly seems to be determined not to get involved with anyone. It seems highly unlikely that what he'd been trying to ask was any sort of a serious proposition.

John reminds himself that he needs to stop letting such things distract him.  Summit day is tomorrow.

He needs to keep his eyes on the prize.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My next tumblr ramblings will be posted with chapter 10.


	10. Spindrift

>  
> 
> _"I wanted to achieve something essential in life, something that is not measured by money or position in society... The mountains are not stadiums where I satisfy my ambitions to achieve. They are my cathedrals, the houses of my religion... In the mountains I attempt to understand my life."_  
>  — Anatoli Boukreev  
>    
> 

For John, the night before a summit bid is always sleepless. They will spend a short, tense night at Camp Three before heading to the top but leaving Base Camp behind always feels like the first proper step towards the goal. Half of him is second-guessing the whole endeavour while still trying to keep fear from taking hold, and the other half restless with excitement to get going. He knows it gets better the moment they set off towards the mountain tomorrow; the last hours of waiting are the worst part.

At four in the morning, he gets up to take a piss at the edge of the camp and can't resist walking by Sherlock's tent. It's lit from the inside, making John wonder if his neighbour is also having trouble catching the tail end of slumber.

Is he calm or nervous? How finalised are his plans for the assault on the mountain, or does he adapt them as he goes? How worried is he about the weather, about his acclimatisation? Despite Sherlock's disputatious confidence as a mountaineer, John has senses something oddly brittle about the man.

If he manages to be as fast as Ueli Steck who had solo-summited Annapurna I in record time, Sherlock will go up and return in about twenty-eight hours. Moving so speedily requires astounding physical conditioning, but there is an upside of a lower risk of significant altitude sickness since the time spent in the Death Zone will be shorter than with an expedition strategy. Sherlock doesn't seem like the patient type, so John isn't surprised he climbs in alpine style. He's certainly got the speed and the technique.

John leaves behind the group of personal tents, taking care not to trip in the dark. _Should have taken my headlamp._ A glance up rewards John with the richness of the night sky, millions of stars dotting the emptiness instead of being hidden by the light pollution of a city. Still, the moon is only a sickle tonight, and the starlight is cold and distant—not enough to illuminate his path.

Just when John finds a suitable spot behind some rocks and begins zipping open his thermal suit trousers, he hears another zipper behind him in the darkness, then gravel grinding beneath the soles of hiking boots.

Soon, the shape of a taller man takes up a standing position a few feet from John, obviously with the same task in mind.

John chuckles inwardly, thinking back to the pub restrooms of his uni days; it doesn't matter whether one is in London or on a lonely mountain, some things are the same—such as the awkwardness of trying to decide what to say or whether to say anything at all when standing next to someone while having a tinkle.

"Can't sleep?" John finally settles for, resting his eyes on the velvet darkness stretching in front of them. He can't even make out the cliffs at the edge of the dry river bed valley the Base Camp sits on.

"I require very little of it," a familiar baritone replies.

Soon, they're both done, and John can hear the fabric of Sherlock's altitude suit shift as he's the first to turn to begin walking back to his tent.

"I know you don't like using it, but you could radio in to let us know if you've summited; if we've got someone still up there they could snap your photo."

Without a photograph, standing on the summit is just a tall tale. Confirmation from a climbing partner is also useful; in the age of photoshopping, even a photo could lie.

" _If_ I've summited?" Sherlock asks, slowing his steps just as he passes John who hastily shoves himself back into his Y-front thermal underwear and zips up his down trousers. "I don't need help up top; I'm perfectly capable of setting up a delayed shot on a small tripod."

John draws a breath, the irritated desire to counter the man's characteristic arrogance with a few words of experience rising up. "That your way of telling me I should focus on those less likely to do well?"

"You've already taken out the weakest link, so you must think this is a promising group. I don't think the younger Briton is as good as he thinks. Keep an eye on him," Sherlock prompts.

The younger of the British climbing pair hasn't caused any concerns for John or his team yet, and John would never describe Al North as a _weak link_. A climber's strength isn't just about physique—it's also about decision-making and tenacity.

 _No,_ John decides, _there's another Briton I would prefer to keep an eye on._ Another one he _wants_ to keep an eye on, but that option had been taken out of his hands right at the start of this expedition.

Sherlock is now nearly at his tent, and John is struck by a strange need to extend the conversation, so he jogs after him. "I know what you agreed on with James regarding what you're paying and not paying for but don't hesitate to let us know if you need anything. It's lonely up there."

"Summit day offer such a sense of purpose that it is never the time that I feel the loneliest," Sherlock replies and opens his tent door. "It's what comes after, what comes _between_ summits, that makes me want to take a gun to a brick wall." He retreats into the tent, seals it like a cocoon.

 _As long as it's not to your head_ , John thinks and shudders.

A gun to a brick wall, or a needle to a vein.

Is it the same impulse that chases John out of urban civilisation to pit himself against frightening odds in these desolate places?

Is it the same thing that had driven a wedge between him and James?

  
-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-  
  


The morning arrives with blindingly bright sunlight. Nary a wisp of snow is blowing off the top of the massif, signalling that the winds have died down just as Valerie had predicted.

They may not get a chance as good as this one.

Standing outside his tent, John heaves his pack onto his back and tucks the excess bit of his harness belt back into an equipment loop.

Valerie is watching her, leaning against the pole of her own tent.

She will stay at Base Camp instead of one of the Sherpas to keep an eye on Al. Yesterday afternoon, John had met up with the veteran climber and delivered the news both men had probably been expecting. During the past few days, Al’s cough had got worse and turned phlegmatically productive. A low-running fever that had made itself known yesterday morning had been the icing on the diagnostic cake. When John had listened to Al's lungs, his left side had been raspy with coarse mucus plugging up at least one lobe, and his oxygen saturation was hanging in low numbers even for Base Camp.

John had pulled up a chair in front of Al in the medical tent and sat down. He had bit his lip, trying to work out how to deliver the devastating blow. "You know I can’t let you go up. It’s pneumonia." 

Al sighed but, unlike many others who John has had to pull out of summit bids, showed no hostility towards the messenger. "I like to think I’m still in this game because I've never ignored good advice. I know this is it for me, John, in more ways than one, and I appreciate the effort the three of you and the Sherpas have put in. Annapurna isn't for me, not in this lifetime. I’ve not felt like myself since Hiunchuli; that peak just wiped me out."

The kind yet hardened look in Al's eyes was that of a seasoned mountaineer who had learned to favour survival above success, and to resist summit fever. John is convinced that if _anyone_ could have climbed Annapurna at such an age, it would have been Al. The fact that he isn't lying in a hospital bed but moving around looking like he only has a summer flu is a testament to his formidable fitness.

"I respect being the client and you being the guide, but up there, rank matters less than luck and the ability to keep a clear head," Al said, nodding towards the mountain they could only imagine seeing through the tent wall. "If you need advice, or just a receptive ear, you know I'm just a radio call away. I've been an expedition leader, too. I know it's a lonely job, no matter how many competent colleagues you've got. Someone has to have the last word, and to face the consequences of those decisions."

John nodded. "Thanks. I'll take all the help I can get. And I’m sorry. I know why and how much you wanted to do this."

"Joze wouldn’t want me to join him just yet. Dying would not be a good memorial for a friend."

"Or even an enemy," John tried to lighten the mood.

Al’s smile made his eyes sparkle and his forehead crinkle up. It was the unreserved smile of a man with a life well-lived. "No, definitely not. So, what do you prescribe?"

"Fluids, antibiotics, rest and oxygen. We’ll leave the bottles reserved for your summit day behind for that, and Val will make sure you have everything you need. She's not as great a cook as Tenzing, but there's always the chocolate bar stash."

"Thank you, John." Al rose to his feet. The stoop of his shoulders seemed to carry both resignation and relief.

They shook hands—a firm grip held for longer than it would be in the hectic world of cities and business and civilization.

Now, Al stands by the mess tent door, mug of tea in hand as he watches the summit team gearing up for their attempt.

John meets his gaze as he clicks shut two buckles on his back.

"Be safe, John." Al raises his mug into a toast.

Valerie steps closer to check that John’s and Mince’d radios are properly attached to their shoulder straps, and the clients who are arriving in the clearing follow the example.

She turns to address Mince: "You better come down in one piece; I’m not done with your lessons."

Mince makes a sloppy salute. "Ay, Ma’am."

Then, hesitantly, she faces John. "Stay safe up there,” she says sternly. "And don’t be a stranger. Radio in if there’s anything you need." After a moment of hesitation, she awkwardly wraps her arms around John’s shoulders, gives his back a pat, and then retreats.

This morning, John finds it easy to give her a smile. "Look after Al. He should know what to do with his meds; I've given him what he needs and written you a list of what you might need from the drug cabinet for certain symptoms. He's strong—he's probably been fighting this for a week and not got worse."

"Where’s my hug, then?" Mince jokes.

"You have to wait for your bridesmaid orgy," Valerie quips back with a crooked grin.

They head out, walking past the personal tents that have been their home away from home for weeks, now. They will be that again, but then the atmosphere will be different since they’ll all be packing for departure instead of watchful waiting and getting to know each other.

From Sherlock’s tent, John can hear the sound of gear being packed, and the metallic clicks of cams and carabiners being shifted around are accompanied by a faint sound of classical music. Intruding on such a soundtrack of concentration and preparation feels wrong; John also wouldn’t want to have a conversation with the man in front of everyone else.

What would he even say? What could he say to someone who only lets others see the real him when he chooses so, and even then, John can never be sure if it's just a layer upon another layer. _An act. A deception._

Who is Sherlock Holmes, and what on Earth could John have to say to him, now?

_Stay safe? Look after yourself? Keep us updated?_

He hears the faint thud of a coil of rope being dropped on the ground. Then, the clatter of what could be a plastic mug against metal.

_Come back alive. Please._

With only a brief slowing in his steps as he walks past the tent, John puts on his sunglasses, raises his chin and shifts his gaze to the mountain.

  
-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-  
  


Twelve hours later, chests heaving like bellows and lactic acid making their thighs feel like bricks, Mince and John zip open a tent set up for them at Camp Three by the Sherpas on one of their rope-fixing climbs. Insulation pads cover the ground and there's a trangia cooker in the corner. They will need to melt snow in it for drinking water, tea and cooking.

The two men collapse onto sitting on the ground, leaning back-to-back against each other. John lets his head loll backward onto his companion's shoulder.

"You saw everyone…right?" John pants. He's highly tempted to dig around in his pack for his oxygen mask and bottle, but he should save every bit of the life-saving gas for the Death Zone. They're barely below it. It'll be a miserable night trying to draw a breath.

"Corner tent's…the Brits," Mince replies, then launches into a coughing fit. "Hakon…next to us. Ingrid with…Yunko."

Since John had seen the Sherpas taking over one of the tents close by, the whole group is accounted for.

Were Al with them, he would have bunked with Hakon since Yunko had quietly approached John at Base Camp to request a female tent companion. She had painstakingly explained that there was nothing wrong with Al, but she simply felt more comfortable this way, and it was an easy request to grant. Ingrid hadn't minded at all, and Hakon had assured John he was fine on his own, waving off an offer to have Mince share with him. John had still wanted to place the Norwegian client in a tent close to the guides.

Mince radioes in to Base Camp, lets Valerie know they have all arrived safely at Camp Three.

"How is it possible to always forget… how much this sucks?" Mince complains, amazement in his voice as he packs away his radio. It's obvious he's referring to how they are all currently feeling: short of breath, wiped out, cold, battling the miserable epiphany that things are only going to get tougher from here.

"Who the bloody hell would pay for this?" John asks, chuckling, which is then followed by a bout of strangled coughing.

"Lucky for us… there’s a bunch of them in the neighbouring tents," Mince jokes, and his laughter also soon turns to his most desperate attempt yet to draw in oxygen while violently coughing up nothing at all in the painfully dry air.

  
-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-  
  


Two hours later, Mince's laboured breathing has settled into a sleepy pattern, but John is still awake. It's a windless, cold night, and it's nice to have a warm body close by in the tent. Up here, intimacy is survival—one might think about sex up here, but nobody's having it, and the harsh reality of where they are tears down personal barriers and makes everyone focus on more immediate needs. Proximity is for warmth, and warmth saves lives.

They'd all napped after arriving at Camp Three, then dragged themselves to work melting snow and preparing food. Dinner, lunch, breakfast and snacks up here consist of protein bars, nuts, energy gels, chocolate bars, camper food boiled in bags, and mild tea. The altitude makes water boil at a lower temperature, which doesn't squeeze out much flavour from the leaves.

After dinner, the sun had begun to set and the temperature plummet, so everyone had retreated to their tents. If John opened the zip of the tent, he'd be treated to an awe-inspiring spread of stars. In higher camps, the Milky Way in particular truly looks like a road in the heavens—one as bright as the condensation trails of aeroplanes.

Thinking back to the events of the day, John decides he's quite happy with everyone else's progress and mental equilibrium—insofar as he has been able to gauge it through short interactions at meals and during the ascent. No client had given them any worries on the way up regarding climbing speed, technique, or health. They have a good group with a good shot for success. In a climb this demanding and a group this experienced, it is left to the clients' discretion whether they follow through with a full summit bid—anyone might develop altitude sickness symptoms necessitating descent in the Death Zone or decide that their heart isn't in it. They only obligation they have is to keep the guides up to date on where they are. No amount of fixed ropes or experience can help if one of the avalanches that Annapurna is famous form hits and shoves someone off the mountain. All bodies—living and dead—must be accounted for at all times, and if someone hasn't radioed in for some time, the grid of their potential whereabouts grows too big for a realistic attempt as rescue.

As limited as their powers are to protect anyone up here, the lives of their clients are now—more than ever—the responsibility John, Mince, and the Sherpas.

All lives—except for the one whose contract explicitly states that his fate is not in the hands of Summit Fever but only the mountain. The one who eats their food, listens to their weather forecasts, clips onto their ropes, but refuses to be a part of their group.

_Sherlock._

The name kept flitting through John's racing thoughts as they made their way up the slopes. He has tried not to let Al North's scepticism get to him—tried to decide that, instead of worrying about someone who doesn't want and most likely won't need his help, he should be worrying about those he is paid to look after.

How could anyone think like Sherlock does—that out here, everyone should just fend for themselves? Without solidarity, every climber who gets into trouble will likely die. Humans are not supposed to survive out here, let alone up in the Death Zone. Even just the lack of oxygen can severely compromise judgment, and even the best climber could turn into the village idiot. A sprained ankle, a lost glove—even the smallest problem can set off an escalating cycle of peril ending in becoming a frozen monument on one of these slopes.

John zips open a corner of the tent door to ward off the sense of claustrophobia caused by hypoxia.

The view towards what must be the west looks a lot like a photograph taken by James which hangs in their office. He'd snapped it during a summit bid for Broad Peak, two days after he and John had first met at Base Camp on a bright, windless night much like this one.

Oddly enough, his and James' first words had been exchanged over a nocturnal encounter while relieving themselves. Maybe he's remembering this now, because his encounter with Sherlock last night had been so different. Much more reserved. Tentative. Careful. Fragile.

That night at Broad Peak, the Moon had been out, so John had recognised the man standing next to him a climber from another expedition.

"John, right?" James asked as they both faced away from the massif so that the wind wouldn't blow fresh snow into their faces.

"Yeah. You're with Himex?" Himalayan Experience, known in the business as Himex, is an old commercial expedition company founded by renowned New Zealand mountaineer Russell Brice. James had been their client, doing his first eight-thousander. John had taken a gig as a guide and medic for a smaller expedition, with the additional task of running the firm's Base Camp operations.

"Yeah. James Sholto. I'd shake your hand, but, you know, otherwise occupied."

John chuckled in reply.

"Look at us. Two blokes waving our peckers at the universe. Sums up climbing pretty nicely; nothing quite like it, is there?" James had joked, and at that point it had felt like nothing but the usual sort of relax camaraderie one tended to share with everyone at smaller Base Camps. John hadn't really though that trying not to freeze his knob having a piss was analogous to summiting, but he had laughed politely. _James, always the showman. Always the crowd-pleaser._ _The good guy. The CEO._ The one who likes neat package deals and turning remote corners of the world into branded products with a firm logo on top.

"I've got some Macallan, and there's room in the tent," James had told him, lingering by. "You like that sort of thing, John?" he had asked knowingly.

In that strange way that one just _knows_ , John had understood all that was on offer. And, he'd said yes.

Being with James was—for the first few years—fun and easy and uncomplicated.

_Everything that Sherlock is not. Why am I even thinking about him right now?_

It appears that Sherlock doesn't have anyone in his life the way James had been in John's. By all accounts, Sherlock doesn't _want_ anyone, for reasons unknown. John at least doubts the man would ever try to seduce someone with a bottle of whisky and an invitation to share a tent.

Sherlock isn't trying to sell John some notion of a life or a career, but he does seem to see something in John which he doesn't like being reminded of exists. Letting those things have free rein is a pipe dream. A mirage. He needs to work to put food on the table, doesn't he? Not everyone's got some posh trust fund to lean on.

Initially it had seemed like the perfect deal: he and James, running a company together. It's just that John liked James more than he liked the idea of running any company, anywhere. He had tried to adapt to the paperwork, the routines, the job security—to believing his options were limited.

_Job security? What a fucking joke, when your business model is based on fighting to keep your clients from dying on you._

Turning his head to the right just before zipping the tent back up, John can make out a faint spindrift blowing off the summit like a veil.

_That shouldn't be there._

It means that the wind has picked up. John turns onto his stomach inside his sleeping bag, leans on his elbows and reaches out for his radio just as it rattles to life, the noise making Mince stir and mutter something about snowboarding.

John gives him a shove before he manages to open the connection.

"John, do you read me, over?" Valerie asks.

"John here. Mince is with me." He sits up stiffly, keeping the radio and his hands inside his sleeping bag. "Over."

"Wind's picked up south of us, and there's a small residual storm front that's changed course. You should have a nice margin before it arrives, but I've been thinking and comparing the charts and I'd recommend you head out a few hours earlier than planned just to be on the safe side. Over."

"Alright, will do. We'll have a two a.m. start, then. Over."

John checks his watch. This change of plans means that they only have two hours of rest left. He and Mince will have to wake the clients and Sherpas up ahead of their original schedule and make sure everyone is packed and ready by their departure time.

"Good," Valerie says, sounding relieved. "I told Holmes and he's heading up earlier than planned, too. Might catch you on the summit instead of on the way back. Over."

It's strange how much the slim chance of getting to stand on top of Annapurna with Sherlock Holmes suddenly excites John; it shouldn't add much to the main event but somehow, he wants to see the expression on the man's face when he takes the final steps to their destination.

John realises that wants to see that to understand why Sherlock wants to stand up there. He doesn't even know why, but something tells him that seeing it would somehow help John understand his own motivations.

"Keep us updated. Over." he tells Valerie needlessly. He needs the reassurance more than she needs the instructions.

"You got it, boss. Over."

Mince's hair is sticking up and he's yawning. "We got a weather problem?"

"Not a problem yet, and what Val's given us is a weather _solution_. We're leaving two hours earlier than we planned, but we _are_ going for the summit."  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, there is [a new Expedition Diary post](http://jbaillier.tumblr.com/post/179378207290/time-for-some-more-peripheral-ramblings-connected) up at my tumblr. 
> 
> There's also some delectable nonsense going on there connected to the wonderful commentary this fic has received. Here's [the latest edition of a fictional not-quite-the-Alpinist Magazine](http://jbaillier.tumblr.com/post/179340647775/also-in-our-latest-edition-kaiju-or-yeti), and [a treatise on the ecological implications of mountain!trash!john](http://jbaillier.tumblr.com/post/179321262570/mountaintrashwatson-amirite).
> 
> A spindrift is most often used to describe a spray of water blown off from cresting waves during a gale, but it can also be used to describe the veil of snow blowing off a mountain top when there's a strong enough wind up there.
> 
> [Trangia](https://trangia.se/en/) = A legendary campers' cooking system manufactured by a Swedish company since the 1920s.
> 
> Why are they starting their summit bid at night? Climbing upwards in the dark is (marginally) less dangerous than descending in the dark, and a summit bid will usually last long enough to require at least a part of it happening outside daylight hours. I have no idea what time of the day Sherlock would actually start his trip up, so you can chalk up any weird things about their schedules to artistic licence and the author not actually having any practical experience of this stuff.
> 
> Radios = not all climbers carry radios even in commercial expeditions. Himex clients have done so for years, and it seemed like a sensible thing to do, so Summit Fever clients get to enjoy such a luxury as well.
> 
> A word on acclimatization = were this a real expedition, they would have probably made their way up to higher camps and back several times to acclimatize. Thus, climbing other mountains is mostly a narrative gimmick by yours truly.
> 
> Lactic acid is what muscles start manufacturing when put to extreme stress. 
> 
> Altitude doesn't just affect your body—it affects your cognitive function. Hypoxia can cloud your mind and make you a village idiot, and even the best and smartest climber can start doing strange stuff and or ignore obvious danger. A big part of high-altitude summit fever—refusing to turn back against impossible odds to make it to the summit safely and back—is probably this hypoxic cognitive dysfunction.


	11. The Summit

>  
> 
> _“You have to get lost before you can be found.”_  
>  —Jeffrey Rasley  
>    
> 

 

Having only the light from his headlamp to guide him, John rechecks the straps of his crampons. Leaning into their tent for the last time, he runs through a mental list of things he needs and things he can leave behind—every gram he won't have to drag up the mountain counts. He's gone through their written checklist with Mince once already but wants to leave nothing to chance.

He can hear Mince's heavy breathing to his right where the younger guide is strapping an oxygen tank to his pack. Neither of them is using it yet, but the masks will go on their faces once they begin today's work up the mountain. Before that life-giving hiss of oxygen begins, just straightening his back from reaching down for his boots is making John pant, conserving his small tanks by sleeping without the gas has rewarded him with a pounding headache.

They've drank three litres of water each this morning and are carrying plenty more with them. The cold air is dry, and high-altitude forces fluids into the wrong compartments in the body. The heavy exertion of climbing added in to that causes a severe risk of dehydration and death.

Mince is now standing by the tent, holding onto its strings, breathing hard as he struggles with his pack's strap which has twisted on itself. John helps correct it.

They are the last to leave Camp Three; the Sherpas and their clients have already headed for the summit some 1000 metres above. The two of them are keeping the rear; as relatively fast climbers when they need be they can catch up with the group, and staying back allows them to keep an eye on the slower climbers so that they can help if someone starts dragging behind.

John knows Valerie is watching from Base Camp; the clear weather and her state-of-the-art telescope allows her to even recognise climbers up here during daylight—they always make a list of the distinguishing features on all team members' clothing. At night time, all she can do is use the radio and follow the pinpricks of light from their headlamps moving on the slopes.

John opens the connection. "Val, this is John and Mince. Over."

"Valerie here. All set? Over."

"Clients are en route with Sherpas, and we're ready to head up. Will check in once we clear the crux."

There's a headwall on the summit climb that is known as the most difficult part of the climb. With fix ropes, it's manageable, but still takes every climber to the edge of their abilities at such high altitude. Mince hadn't told him, but one of the Sherpas had mentioned to John the young Kiwi had lead that part of the rope-fixing, which has given John an even greater appreciation of Mince's skills. The man is the polar opposite of a windbag the kinds of which John has seen plenty in the climbing business.

"Enjoy the view. Over," are the words with which Valerie has chosen to send them on their way.

 _Finally_. No more waiting, no more planning. Nothing stands between them and the summit, now.

John flings his own Prophet 52 back onto his back and makes sure his balaclava, hood and woollen hat are positioned just so. He checks that his ice axes are securely strapped onto his wrists, then asks Mince to turn on the oxygen on the bottle clipped to the side of the pack. He adjusts the straps of his demand-valve oxygen mask and draws in the first glorious breath. The relief is almost instant: just a few inhalations, and his thoughts seem much clearer instead of feeling like he's got a terrible hangover while trying to breathe inside a plastic bag.

They're wearing ski goggles to ward off snow blindness, heavy boots, and layers and layers of thermal wear underneath an 800-fill down altitude suit. Unlike other types of arctic exploration gear, mountaineering suits are designed to allow for more freedom of movement to allow climbing manoeuvres. The quality of the base layer is surprisingly important—it needs to allow for evaporation of sweat to avoid sweat freezing and worsening the threat of hypothermia. Modern microporous materials are better than wool in that respect.

John's pockets are filled with chocolate bars and caffeine-laced energy gel high in protein and quick-acting carbs. Despite having shoved these down his throat at every opportunity, he knows that his clothes will feel loose back in Kathmandu. He can't even imagine what it would be like to lose as much weight as someone like Sherlock—already thin as a rake, all muscle and no padding.

Mince touches his heavy, padded glove to his helmet with a grin as a greeting to John before donning his oxygen mask.

The smile John returns is strained. He had felt great last night, optimistic, reassured by Valerie's diligence with the weather, but this change of schedule has thrown him more than he would have thought. He tries to seek the calm he has always felt when taking the first step towards the summit, but today the serenity doesn't seem to be arrive. Instead, small worries and superstition seem to gather like a storm cloud, making his heart pound even harder than it already is in the thin air.

Mince is now walking determinedly towards a runnel of névéwhich marks the start of their route up. The sight of his receding back suddenly reminds John of watching Mark Wick walk away from him—the colour of the top of Mince's North Face down suit is nearly identical to Wick's.

John's hands shake slightly as he makes an unnecessary adjustment to his ski goggles and, instead of facing the slope towering in front of them he looks up; maybe seeing the stunning starry sky could shake him out of this.

It doesn't—the sky is mostly hidden by a thin veil of cloud cover. His chest feels constricted and he's slightly dizzy. Maybe he should crank up the oxygen valve, just for a moment. Focusing on his breathing, he realises he must be hyperventilating a bit; he's been working his lungs heavily for days to cope with the hypoxia, so it's no wonder it takes some time to adjust to breathing more oxygen. He's expelling too much carbon dioxide, which is making him feel anxious and strange.

Finding such a logical explanation is consoling. _It's normal. It can be fixed. It's fine._

Despite the urge to work his lungs like bellows, he inhales deeply, then forces himself to hold in that breath. Pinching his eyes shut, he imagines oxygen shifting from his lungs into the blood vessel, diffusing through this alveoli walls. It he breathes in a quick and shallow pattern, it won't have time to make that transition. A slow and shaky exhale, then another held breath.

It helps. The sense of impending disaster abates.

He yells out Mince's name, and the younger climber turns and raises his hand to signal he's stopping. John makes his way up to him—no need to clip onto ropes yet since the slope away from Camp Three isn't steep – and asks if Mince could follow him instead of John being the last one in the group. He can't see the New Zealander's expression due to the goggles and the oxygen mask, but his body language does betray a bit of puzzlement. John offers to further explanation and squares his shoulders instead, hoping to convey the still partial falsehood that he's fine.

The anger that suddenly rises to replace apprehension takes John by surprise. _How could anyone be fine up here?_ He and Mince and the Sherpas are being paid to beat the staggering odds of every third person negotiating this route dying.

_It's not fair._

It's not fair that John is one of the very few people who ever get to experience this, but instead of enjoying it he's feeling like the ghost of Mark Wick is stealing the oxygen straight from his lungs. He should be here for himself, not for other people.

He kicks a rock on a rare, bare patch of gravel before stomping up the slope. He's aware of Mince watching him, but the gesture shouldn't alarm the young man too much—he should be used to John's occasional sour patches by now.

  
-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-  
  


  
John's black mood does slowly lift as the physical exertion begins to take its toll. Every single inch he drags himself upwards is paid in full with a bone-crushing exhaustion that tempts him with the ease of just keeling over in a snow bank and letting go. He's tempted to pause before every step; his thighs are burning, sweat is prickling in his neck and he's already had to shove heat packs into his gloves to ward off the tingling warning of potential frostbite. Finally, he'd remembered that he'd shoved a new pair of thermal liner gloves into his pack—a gift from one of the sponsors of their website. James had given this sample of a new product from Helly Hansen to John, hoping that he'd type up a favourable review of it afterwards for the website. _Never mind my fingers, as long as they get their endorsement._

The liner gloves turn out to be a perfect solution to the draft leaking in through the seams of John's admittedly quite old climbing gloves. Were he not with clients, thus needing extra dexterity to dig stuff out of his pack and to assist others with their rope work, he would have worn thick mitts which tend to be warmer than double-liner gloves. He tries to avoid his hands sinking into the snow covering the steepening slope as he begins to use the handles of his ice axes as walking sticks to balance himself. He doesn't try to calculate how far they've got to the summit—it would only discourage him. For John, the trick has always been to climb, focused on nothing but his own thoughts until he encounters one of the technical sections of the climb, has to switch his jumari and safety carabiner to a new section of rope, or he arrives at the summit. Apart from the short headwall they've already ascended, Annapurna's last kilometre does not contain such formidable cruxes as Everest's Hillary Step or K2's Bottleneck—instead, the danger lurks at every corner in the form of avalanches and unpredictable weather.

The sun is up which is good news regarding the temperature. John looks up; the spindrift from the top has not died down, but the weather still mostly looks perfect. They can continue.

 _He_ can continue.

One more step. Then one more. One at a time. Until he stands on top of the mountain.

  
-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-  
  


  
It's difficult even to believe it has happened when they do reach a corniced crest of frost known as the tenth highest point on Earth. Suddenly, the slope in front of John disappears as it merges to a conical ridge, atop of which their clients and the Sherpas are sitting and basking in the sun, taking pictures.

After months and months of planning and weeks of preparation and worry, the moment of summiting could be anti-climactic but it never is—not for John.

He drops to his knees, sending a puff of feather-light, glittering snow flying around him like silvery confetti. For a brief moment, he forgets all about his responsibilities, the nightly sound of avalanches, the long climb down still ahead of them, the hair-raising moment on the way up when he'd slid backwards on a section of a jagged ice ridge and felt the strap of a crampon start to come loose as he struggled for purchase. He momentarily forgets about James, about his small and dusty and claustrophobic flat in Kathmandu, and about the way Valerie sometimes looks at him as though she's won.

He forgets everything else but the sights spreading around him. The landscape spreading below looks as though he'd sprouted wings and soared above the clouds and is looking at Planet Earth like his own playground and his kingdom. Wisps of clouds twist around peaks like spun sugar, walls of ice shine like crystal as the blinding sun reflects off them.

John yells, not words but a howl. His joy is ephemeral, but perhaps that's what makes it count more than something more concrete and permanent would. This cannot be clung to, hidden inside of, or offered as sacrifice—it just _is_ , intangible yet more real than anything else.

_I was here._

No one can take this way from him. This is why he does things—this is why he _should_ be doing things. Not for clients, not for James—for _himself_. This is what he has kept forgetting while being miserable toiling away at some trekking peak base camp tending to the complaints of tourists while rain pelts down on him. When the roar of avalanches has woken him up at night, this is what he should have been remembering, being happy he's alive, instead of just worrying about his clients.

This moment is the source of the strange light that is now burrowing into his chest again, the one he sees in the eyes of climbers returning from a successful summit bid. It's the one that makes them look like they have seen beyond the mountain and looked further than anyone else.

John vaguely registers Mince snapping his photo and then firing away with the camera at the others resting before their imminent descent. James will be happy—such photos will bring them lots of new clients.

John isn't happy. He doesn't want _more_ people up here; he only wants those to make it who are worthy of it, who don't have to be dragged up by Sherpas because their lack of abilities would otherwise have gotten them killed.

What does give John great joy is seeing that every client who set out from Base Camp has made it. All clients labour at their individual paces, but every climber has a deadline regarding turning back if they haven't summited yet when a certain hour hits. It's a tough rule to adhere to for many—obeying it means that a summit bid will be abandoned in lieu of more guaranteed survival. Not that the word 'guarantee' ever has any place in mountaineering. These people have what it takes, and John is exhilarated to share the summit with them.

He checks his oxygen bottle and his watch; they can't stay long.

A sense of finality sets in as John looks down onto the valleys and vistas spreading below: he won't stand here again. He doesn't know why, but he's certain of it. He and Annapurna are done. A part of him wants to walk in a circle around the ridge to look for footprints, a lost piece of gear, _something_ that Mark Wick had left behind. He doesn't know why.

 _Let go_. That's what James has been telling him, but he never stopped to ask John why he had stayed so hung up in that tragedy. Then again, John isn't sure he would have had an answer to offer.

Maybe it's because he wants that choice back—the choice that Wick had made: to carry the responsibility over his own life instead of whoring it away to the benefit of others. He wants to choose who he climbs with, and he wants that person to be his equal. In an act of defiance he decides, standing on the summit ridge, knee-deep in powdery snow, that he owes it to himself _and_ Mark Wick never to let it go. Never to forget and forgive himself. He can do it without getting paralysed; after all, he has been able to return to Annapurna, to summit it again, without letting the fear strike him down. If he ever faced a situation similar to his argument with Wick again, he would fight _harder_ , not walk away.

John knows he'd been quite wrapped up in his thoughts on their ascent—had they passed a climber in trouble on their way up, perhaps Mince would have had to alert him to the fact. _Time to be a bit more sociable, now._ He high-fives Mince, then chats with the other climbers. Mince had already radioed Valerie with news of their summiting, and soon Valerie calls again to tell them that the weather looks to be changing just as she had feared.

They need to leave, now. A much wider and thicker veil of snow is blowing off the summit, already concealing Macchapucchare from view. The wind isn't dangerously strong yet, but as afternoon turns into evening, it often gets stronger. John rallies his troops, and they begin descending after Valerie assures him all of their clients and Sherpas are accounted for. John and Mince linger in the back of the group, content with the speed which everyone is descending towards the safety of the lower camps. Originally, they had planned on staying overnight at Camp Three, but Valerie had recommended descending to Camp Two. Foul weather always increases the risks of avalanches, particularly higher up.

An hour later, it becomes apparent that their descent truly had begun in the nick of time. Darker clouds begin blocking out the sun and muddying the crystalline blue of the sky with grey swirls the colour of ash as they traverse a short distance towards Annapurna III to reach the second highest set of fixed ropes. The wind is now brutally whipping ice crystals off the slopes into their faces; if they weren't covered with nose guards, balaclavas, oxygen masks, and ski goggles, their cheeks would get frostbitten very quickly.

Heavy snowfall begins, and soon they are practically wading downwards in the fresh powder obscuring ropes from view. Powdery snow tends to slide on the more densely-packed snow underneath and having to constantly battle the risk of falling or twisting an ankle of knee makes John's thighs groan in agony.

Summiting is only half the job, perhaps even less—climbers are more tired on the way down, and it's easy to get sloppy and lose footing the longer one has spent in the thin air that lowers the ability to make rational decisions and to be careful.

Just as they've clipped themselves to a fixed rope just below the crux wall section, Mince nearly tumbles down a longer slope before managing to halt his slide by turning on his stomach and giving his ice axe a good swing to stop his slide down.

John curses and stops to lean on his knees after reaching him.

"Don't ever fucking do that again!" he yells.

Mince scrambles to his feet, pats snow off his sleeves and claps a hand on John's shoulder. "No worries, old man, I was just checking if you were paying attention!" he announces and then, seemingly unaffected with his close call with death, practically bounces down the mountain.

John has always thought that Mince's physique would be perfect for alpine-style climbing instead of the gradual progress of Himalayan expeditions, but since the people seem to be even bigger a draw than the summit for the bloke, he seems perfectly happy in his current job. John has told James that with a bit more years and more experience under his belt, Mince might make a great head guide, assuming he starts enjoying the limelight more.

After four hours of slow progress down the mountain in worsening weather, they finally spot the yellow domes of the tents of Camp Three. The snowstorm had hidden them from view until the climbers were a stone's throw away.

John had spoken to Valerie half an hour earlier on the radio, and she had assured him that all clients had already descended from there. John had tried to speak to them on their radios, but the storm is already making connections dodgier. All the radio traffic is circulated through Base Camp, which is why Valerie's connection is better. The Sherpas climbing with the clients would have contacted one of the guides if there was a problem, and Valerie says that all climbers have reported being in good condition upon leaving Camp Three.

Tenzing meets them at the tents, helping them shed their crampons and climb inside for a much-needed tea break. The Sherpa is all smiles and thumbs up, to which John and Mince reply with similar gestures and expressions. They're not out of danger yet, not by far, but downwards of here the whole route is easy to find and supplied with fixed ropes. Most importantly: they're out of the Death Zone, with plenty of oxygen to spare.

John radios Valerie again now that he can hear better in the tent where the wind isn't howling straight into his ears.

He asks her to confirm the location of every client by name. It takes some ten minutes for her to raise them.  

"All on their way down. That's it, then." Valerie adds. "All summited, except for Al. He's here at Mess Tent, having a whisky. Over."

John chuckles. "Tell him to pour me a glass. He should save some for Holmes, too—that'd be a sight, getting the guy drunk. Over."

There's a pause at the other end. "We haven't seen him. Over."

"What do you mean, _you haven't seen him_? If he was being really fast, he could come through here already and headed down. Over." John turns to his fellow guide. "Mince? Radio Holmes." It's unlike the connection will be strong enough, but it's worth a try.

"He was making slower progress during the last 500 metres than I would have assumed, and then the snow started blocking our view. Over," Valerie explains.

"You've not radioed him, then? And he hasn't contacted you? Over."

This doesn't surprise John. Sherlock had been reticent to accept the radio in the first place, so no one would have assumed he'd be making many progress reports.

"Al, could you grab your kit and try to raise him again?" Valerie's voice is quiet; she must be directing her words away from the radio.

 _Again?_ This means Valerie has been trying to get hold of the man and hasn't succeeded.

"Well, he's not here so he must have descended to Camp Two, over," John tells her.

Mince points to his own radio and shakes his head. "Nothing."

One of the Sherpas had left the summit much earlier than the others so that he could receive the clients as they arrive, and Tenzing calls him.

The Sherpa is already at Camp Two. "No Holmes, over," is the reply. "No see Holmes. Over."

"We can't raise him, either," Valerie tells John. The line rattles and it's hard to make out her words. "He isn't here. There's still sunlight down here, so if he'd come back I'm sure me or Al would have spotted him. Al just walked through the whole camp just to make sure, and there's no way he could already be here, schedule-wise. He would have had to shave off ten hours from Steck's record. There's no way. Over."

"How long have you been here?" Mince asks Tenzing. The reply assures the two guides that the Sherpa had been the first to arrive back at Camp Three, and he would have seen everyone who had come through here.

The strings of the tent are flapping violently in the wind, and the light from the lantern hanging from the pole of this largest tent already appears quite bright since sunlight has been blocked out by the heavy clouds and snowfall.

"If he's not here, and he's not at Camp Two, and there's not a chance in hell that he could have got back to Base Camp yet, where the hell is he?" John demands, finger keeping the radio connection open, but his words are directed at everyone in the tent, too.

"Somewhere that's not your responsibility, that's where he is," Valerie snaps. "The three of you need to get down, _now_. Over."

John meets Mince's gaze. The young man looks slightly spooked. As far as John knows, he's never lost a client.

Then again, Holmes isn't _that_ sort of a client. They're not responsible for him. He isn't climbing with the group.

"Either he's taken a fall, or he's between Camp Three and the summit," John reasons. "High up is the only part of the route wide enough that we could have missed spotting him on our way down. He could have veered off the route at some section where there's less need for fixed ropes."

Mince is shaking his head, warning in his eyes.

The tent shakes from the strength of the storm.

The radio rattles. "John?" Valerie asks. "John? Over."

"I'm going up to find him. Over."

"John, _no!_ " Valerie shrieks into the radio. "The _fuck_ you are! _John!_ "

He closes the connection, even covers the receiver with his mitten for good measure as he fixes his gaze on the Sherpa and Mince. "Anyone with me?"

The Sherpa unzips the door of the tent. They are instantly pelted by heavy snowfall, and the wind is so cold that it feels as though it's biting straight down into their bone marrow.

"It no good, Watson," the Sherpa says. "We go down."

"There's no way, John," Mince says. "It'll be hell trying to even do that, now."

"Then stay," John orders. "Stay here and help us when we get back."

Mince's radio rattles to life.

" _Écoute moi,_ _Mince_!" Valerie yells through the radio. "You get down here right now and bring John and Tenzing with you! The ropes are there, and the storm front isn't fully here yet; you should be able to make it to Camp Two safely. But, that's only if you leave _now_ , and the three of you do it together! _Over!_ "

John thinks about Mark Wick. He thinks about the first time he saw Mount Everest, and the first time he saw a dead body in these icy heights.

He thinks about Sherlock, alone, somewhere up there. _Dying_ alone. Every step in the Death Zone is a step closer to the last, and the only way to survive is to get down.

John grabs his ice axes and slides his hood back on. "I'm going up."

Mince grabs his shoulder. "John, that's _insane_!" He turns the radio back on. "Val, tell him!" he begs. John has never seen his this rattled.

"It's Al," rattles a voice much deeper than the Frenchwoman's through John's radio. "John, are you there? Over."

"Yeah," John replies, readjusting his left crampon, making sure it's strapped tight. "Not leaving him out there. No way. Over."

"He could have already taken a fall or got buried under an avalanche. We don't even know if there's anything we can do."

"There's no _we_ , apparently," John snaps. "I've not heard any avalanches," he adds with a biting tone. "Where was he the last time Valerie spotted him? Over."

Al reluctantly relays him the landmarks of the spot, but they'll be largely useless now that the snowstorm is concealing all distinctive features.

"John, please," Al says. "We don't want to leave two bodies behind instead of one. Don't throw your life away trying to save a dead man. Over."

John isn't sure if he's talking about Sherlock Holmes or Mark Wick, or both.

Every eight-thousander is a graveyard, and John is about to go chase a ghost.

"I can't order any of you to follow, but I'm doing this," he says, unsure whether his conviction comes from, yet completely certain that it's real. He feels confident up to the point of euphoria.

_I'm doing this. I need to do this._

He knows he should be listening to Valerie and Al and Mince and Tenzing. They're telling him he should be putting his own life before that of another person, especially since he's responsible for the whole group, but who says his life is more valuable than Sherlock's? Who has the final word on whether he'd failed Mark Wick that day? He hadn't wanted John's help, but it's obvious he had needed it.

He's pretty damned fucking sure Sherlock Holmes needs it right now.

John pushes past the Sherpa and grabs the emergency kit of an extra oxygen mask and bottle plus the larger extra water thermos that is always kept full, strapping them to his pack. The extra weight will make climbing hell, and he's already fatigued, but it doesn't matter.

"I'm going," he announces, and something about his tone makes the other refrain from further protesting.

Mince rises to his feet, looking apprehensive. He reaches out to check that John's radio is strapped to his pack. It's a pointless, useless gesture, but it's still a sign of camaraderie. "Keep in touch."

John zips open the tent door and shoves his pack out into the snow. "Will do. Tell Val to get the Gamov ready, just in case," he instructs, referring to a portable pressure tent used to treat altitude sickness before a patient can be evacuated.

"John, think about this," Al pleads through Mince's radio one more time, his voice dim and distorted.

"I have," John replies pointedly and disappears into the storm.

   
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What does it look like on the summit of Annapurna I? [Here's a video](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hyr7vXyTjTg). And [here's a video by a climber](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IrC3e-Ct0ho) who summited Annapurna I without supplementary oxygen or Sherpa support.
> 
> névé = a young, granular type of snow which has been partially melted, refrozen and compacted, yet precedes the form of ice
> 
> runnel = a gutter
> 
> The oxygen bottles carried by climbers are small, so won't last long. The higher they crank up the flow of oxygen, the faster they will naturally deplete. This is why climbers try to conserve their stock. Usually, Sherpas and guide carry up extra bottles when fixing ropes for commercial expeditions. There are newer oxygen systems being developed which have more advanced demand valves, only delivering the precious gas when a climber inhales. It's just that the more sophisticated a system is, the more prone it might be to freezing and malfunctioning.


	12. Into the Storm

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>    
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> _“Some people feel like they don't deserve love. They walk away quietly into empty spaces, trying to close the gaps of the past.”_  
>  — Jon Krakauer  
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> 

Desperation tightens its band around John's chest as he tries to retrace his steps for the third time across a narrow couloir leading towards the summit just below the crux headwall. He wants to be absolutely sure that he has searched the whole area before expending a lot of energy climbing up the strenuous vertical section. It had taken him two and a half hours to get to this spot, and he's been going around in a circle for an hour more. He's being battered by the wind so hard that he can't unclip from the fixed ropes even for a moment, and it's hard to even stand without getting knocked over. Visibility is terrible; it's snowing so heavily that even though it should still be full daylight, in actuality it's more like twilight. Moving briskly has kept him warm enough, but he knows his strength is depleting fast. He hasn't drunk enough water, nor has he eaten in hours.

He stops and leans his palm on a boulder, looking down the slopes. He doesn't even try to spot Camp Three; it's likely he has traversed enough to be behind the curve of the peak, and the snowfall obscures everything from view beyond the closest landmarks.

His radio rattles occasionally, but he can't make out any words or even who is trying to raise him. Twice, he had tried to reply to no avail. At least they might hear the clicking of the connection and assume he's still functional.

Yelling out Sherlock's name isn't going to help, not in this howling gale. If anyone is still up here, shouldn't John have seen them, unless they're above the headwall? He'll climb it if he must, but he's hesitant to do so. The route is even more exposed up there.

It's nearly a whiteout, now; John can barely make out the next carabiner attaching the fixed rope to an ice screw, which means that visibility is less than five metres. He's tempted to traverse away from the direct route to back to Camp Three to find a more shelter from the wind, but that would mean abandoning the fixed ropes.

A dull, cracking sound in the distance marks the start of an avalanche and makes him flinch. It's hard to estimate how far away it has happened—the wind and the snow are drowning out the echo. John's heart pounds as though it's going to burst out of his ribcage; it's being whipped into a relentless, insane pace by exertion and fear. Slowing his steps, John forces himself to gulp larger lungfuls of oxygen and to hold those inhalations longer so that the haemoglobin cells in his lung circulation would have more time to pick up a new load. Even with supplemental oxygen, they are struggling to do their jobs, and he has been coughing more, which means that high-altitude oedema might be creeping in, increasing the distance oxygen needs to travel between the air sacks of the lungs and the blood vessels.

He decides he hates this part of the mountain. It's not exceptionally steep or exceptionally slippery, but there are no distinctive features he could use to find his way except for the rope and having to dig it out of the snow repeatedly means that his eyes aren't scanning his surroundings for Sherlock.

 _No point in making the same circle the fourth time._ John curses and starts wading in the snow off the route, towards where he hasn't looked yet. He has plenty of ice screws left, and he uses them to fix new rope as he traverses the mountainside. He knows there's only a short distance between the route they'd taken and another, used only once before for summiting. _Could Sherlock have changed his plans and gone up a different way?_

John racks his brains for details of the alternate route; he should soon be at the start of a steep section, one where the slope looks like it falls down straight below one's feet. Negotiating it would require one to climb up an outcropping ridge as though it were a ladder bent along its vertical middle.

Even traversing is hard work in deep snow and the strong wind. Every cell in his body is screaming at John to go down, to stay alive by evacuating himself from this frozen graveyard, but he can't, not yet. He battles his sense of self-preservation and stands on the steep slope, the tips of his crampons creaking as they grip deeper into the ice underneath the snow cover. Holding on to the jumar he grips to the rope he has just fastened to an ice screw, he leans away from the slope and gazes around.

At first, it's just a shadow. Then, it looks like the shape of a man right at the edge of a ledge, watching over the abyss that would be gaping just underneath if the blizzard wasn't concealing it from view. Everything is so white that John's brain has begun adding black dots to the snow in the absence of more visual cues.

He squints, then momentarily lifts his ski mask away from his eyes. It's not a trick of the light: someone _is_ standing there, motionless. John crouches down, fumbles around for a rope leading that way and finds none. _Surely there should be one? Doing this section without rope would be insane!_

Since John can't find a rope, and this is the only plausible entrance to the ledge, whoever is on the ledge is not attached to anything and could be swept off the mountain by a squall of wind at any moment.

John drags his backpack off and recovers a shorter length of half-thickness rope, connecting it to the ice screw he has just installed. It won't hold if he takes a proper fall, but it will probably keep him safe for approaching the edge. _Probably._ A quick figure of eight attaches him to it; another fixes a carabiner to a sling loop hanging from the ice screw. Slow, steady, a hand pressed against the steep slope, John makes his way towards the edge.

After he has advanced a few metres, the shadow begins to take proper shape, and John can now make out the coloured embellishments on the climber's altitude suit. Relief and worry wash over in equal measure when he realises he has found who he's looking for.

He yells Sherlock's first name over the churning roar of the wind and gets no reaction. Soon, he'll be within an arm's reach but doesn't want to startle the man. Sherlock really isn't clipped into anything; he's just standing there as though taking in the view.

John yells his name again, so loudly that his voice breaks. His heartbeat feels like a countdown, the pulse thrumming with urgency to descend because every minute up here is borrowed time.

John yells again. He's nearly at the ledge.

Finally, Sherlock turns slowly to face him. The nose guard, ski mask, and double balaclava he's wearing conceal his expression; his hands hang limply beside his torso. He appears... _calm_ , somehow.

_He's still standing; why isn't he trying to descend? And why the hell hasn't he laid in any rope?_

John scrambles up to him, nearly losing purchase on some loose gravel underneath the snow; the slope is so steep before the small ledge Sherlock is standing on that ice may not even form there.

"What the fuck are you doing here?" he yells, then grabs hold of an arm. From the zipper pocket on top of his left sleeve he digs out a long sling and a carabiner, clips the sling to the similar carabiner on his own harness, then snaps the carabiner onto the front loop of Sherlock's harness. Then, he stops to pant—the exertion is making him feel like he's choking. For a moment he focuses on nothing but the sound of the on-demand valve of his oxygen mask delivering the precious substance into his lungs.

"I think I summited," Sherlock tells him, but instead of triumph or superiority, he sounds confused. "I'm not sure."

He then starts to lean forward, teetering close to the where the ledge ends, beyond which there's nothing but a nose-dive down the vertical face.

John grabs a tighter hold of the sling connecting them and tugs Sherlock away from the edge. The wind feels strong enough to rip bones off mountain goats.

"Sure about what?" John yells, struggling to make himself heard over the roar of the gale. He starts making his way off the ledge towards the last stretch of rope he'd laid. They need to get back to the main fixed ropes; what they're currently clipped on to won't hold if they both fall.

He tries to pull Sherlock with him, not expecting the resistance he feels. Sherlock is looking over his shoulder, as though there's something important he's looking at in the empty air. "I didn't take a picture of the other climber who was there. I don't know what happened to him."

John blinks hard to get rid of frost on his lashes; he must have inhaled slightly upwards, bringing moisture to his eyes which has instantly frozen. "What other climber? There's nobody out here but us!"

Sherlock shifts on his feet, now staring up towards where the summit would be if they could see it. "He didn't have crampons."

John's brows hitch up. There are no other teams on the mountain—not even on the south side. Valerie and the Sherpas had all confirmed that everyone was accounted for—except for Sherlock.

"Look, he's there, sitting." Holmes is pointing at what can't be anything else than a shadow of a larger rock. "Could be my father but he's dead." He shrugs.

To John, he sounds disconcertingly calm about such a possibility.

Suddenly, realisation dawns: this is not the first time that altitude has caused hallucinations—even without significant cerebral oedema. Plenty of mountaineers have reported climbing with someone near the summit, only for their ghostly companions to disappear into thin air at some point. According to the articles John has read, and first-hand accounts he has heard, those encounters tend to be very positive and reassuring and not frightening at all. There had been one exception—a climber who had hallucinated summiting with a partner who had died two months prior in an avalanche on another continent.

 _No crampons?_ A definite sign of a ghost summoned by altitude. 

"I don't think he's coming," Sherlock says barely loudly enough for John to hear. "He wants to stay."

"Then he can sit on his arse for all I care," John yells. "We need to go down, _now_!" He tugs at Sherlock's harness, but the man tries to shove him away.

"I should go back up, make sure I reached the summit?" He yells to John. He sounds confounded, distracted. At least he seems to have forgotten his imaginary friend.

Even talking is exhausting up here, but apparently, John needs to do more of it to get him moving. They're standing where there's relatively good purchase for their feet, no need to hold on to the rope.

Sherlock is now reaching down to his harness, lifting up the sling and the carabiner and examining them as though he's never seen such a thing before. His movements are jerky, uncoordinated.

John curses under his breath. The hallucination could have been an isolated thing, and even rather harmless, health-wise. Now, he sees more sinister symptoms, ones he is very familiar with: irrational behaviour, utter obliviousness to danger and the need to descend, ataxia.

_Symptoms of high-altitude cerebral oedema. Explains why he would have veered off a route and ended up sitting around with a mirage._

John coughs, draws a few deep breaths, then grabs hold of Sherlock's shoulder. "We've got photos of everybody. We need to go down. You hear me?" He's lying, of course. Sherlock must have summited alone— _if_ he'd summited—so there would have been nobody to take such a picture. Still, John hopes that in his confused state Sherlock will be gullible enough to believe him.

Still not making a move to walk, Sherlock shields his eyes with his hand even though he's got his ski mask on and the light is low. "Too  _bright_ ," he complains.

 _Fuck._ A part of John had hoped that he wouldn't see more alarming signs, but sensitivity to light is yet another symptom of the brain swelling due to the low oxygen partial pressure in the air they're breathing. It can kill faster than lung oedema.

He is done with trying to get Sherlock to see sense. He hasn't checked the time, but the light seems to be dwindling, and he sure as fuck doesn't want to climb down to Camp Three in the dark. He carefully shifts so that he can bracketing his arms on both sides of Sherlock, palms on the slope. Having now positioned himself behind the man, John unceremoniously starts to shove him towards the descent route.

" _Move_!" he commands.

Sherlock flinches and finally, _finally_ begins putting one foot in front of another. He seems to need several tries to find proper handholds, but his crampon work is instinctive and steady.

After minutes which feel like hours, during which John had had to physically keep steering Sherlock in the right direction because he keeps getting distracted, they reach the rope John had laid in before. A few steps more, and they can huddle underneath a bare rock ledge, shielded at least partially from the wind.

John makes sure Sherlock is still safely clipped in to both him and the rope and shoves him against the rock face so that he'd sit down. John then digs out an orange plastic package from the chest pocket of his middle layer—a chore complicated by the fact that he needs to avoid removing his gloves as much as he can in this freezer-like temperature of minus thirty-nine celsius. There's no time to find a proper injection site, no time for surgical sterility—he needs to be quick before the syringe the contents of which his body heat has kept in a liquid state freezes. He clamps his gloves between his knees, gasps when the freezing cold air hits his bare fingers, and pries open the latch on the plastic box. When servicing this emergency kit, he always includes a needle much thicker than anything he would use at sea level to keep it from kinking or getting clogged if he needs to make an injection through clothing.

As quickly as he can and with the automatic movements of someone who has done this hundreds of times, he airs the syringe full of dexamethasone, and jabs it straight through Sherlock's thick, down-filled trousers, hoping that he hits a muscle. If it goes into a vein, it might bleed into the thigh a bit which would hurt but not be dangerous—the substance can be used intravenously as well. If anything, an accidental intravenous injection might even take effect faster.

A fast-acting corticosteroid, the dex will buy time by bringing brain and lung tissue swelling down. It's not a cure for altitude sickness—only descending is.

He's already done by the time Sherlock seems to register what's going on and tries to shove John's hand off, flailing a bit as his coordination leaves a lot to be desired. John rises to a standing position and feels the brunt of exhaustion dragging down his knees. It would be so good to just sit back down, lean against the ice and sleep… Suddenly, it's impossible not to do just that. _I'll just rest my eyes, just for a moment––_

Thankfully, he gets jerked back into awareness by the sound of frantic coughing. Sherlock is shoving aside the balaclava extension covering his mouth, and John half expects him to bring up a bit of pink froth. It would be a sure-fire sign of pulmonary oedema. Instead, the coughing is unproductive, and Sherlock's lips turn pale, bluish, even.

John tugs the woollen balaclava flap back onto his face—the wind is lashing them as though brandishing a frozen riding crop, and they'll lose chunks of flesh off their faces if they're not careful. Losing the soft tissues of the nose to frostbite isn't uncommon of in high-altitude mountaineering, nor is necrosis of the skin and adipose tissue on cheekbones. Sherlock's are so prominent and striking that it well could happen.

John shakes his head, pushing such thoughts away. He curses his own hypoxia-induced idiocy and tendency for distraction—why hadn't he realised there's more he could be doing, more he _should_ be doing? He has neglected the most obvious thing—the fastest way to fix at least some of Sherlock's confusion and lethargy. Up here, exhausted and deprived of oxygen, everyone gets stupid and forgets things. Even the enjoyment of the moment of summiting can be quite severely diluted by the way high altitude robs a climber of their motivation, their ability to concentrate and even messes with their short-term memory.

Having donned his gloves again, John struggles to get the largest compartment of his pack open. He reaches down to the bottom to recover the extra oxygen mask he'd grabbed from Camp Three and unstraps the small emergency tank he'd attached to the side of the pack.

Soon, he has to battle two flailing upper limbs as he determinedly shoves the oxygen mask against Sherlock's face, carefully covering his nose and mouth with it. He can't make out the precise words of protest from the man, but he isn't even that interested. _Fuck it if he wanted to do this without oxygen; if he wants to live, he'd better abandon that rule right now_.

Kneeling down, John clips the canister to a loop in the back of Sherlock's pack and turns on the flow. There's a bit of coughing, some heavy breathing, and then the man's head sags against his shoulder.

"Better, eh?" John asks loudly. After a long delay, he gets a nod. "We've got to get going."

Sherlock shakes his head and says something, but the wind drowns out his words. John tugs him into a standing position, careful not to shift his weight too much off the cliffside. As a result of all the manhandling, Sherlock ends up collapsing against him, which violently twists John's grip on the jumar he has just reattached to the fixed rope. He yelps when he feels a crushing pain in his right thumb, forefinger and middle finger; the hit of adrenaline brought on by this allows him to tackle Sherlock against the cliff.

When he manages to untangle his hand from holding the rope and grip the jumar handle with his left hand instead, he can feel heat and swelling and intense, throbbing pain in the two fingers he has just injured.

 _Fuck_. If they aren't broken, they're badly sprained. John tries to ignore the pain while they shuffle forward along the rope, but every time he moves the fingers even a tiny bit, it shoots tendrils of agony up his forearm. He grits his teeth and soldiers on, aware that the pain has raised his breathing rate which is using up precious oxygen even faster.

Every few steps, Sherlock stops moving and just stands there, dazed and exhausted and disoriented.

"Move!" John growls when he does it yet again.

"Rest," Sherlock drawls slowly.

"Fuck no! Not here, not now," John commands sternly, pushes him to face the direction they need to be heading in, and gives his bum a good shove.

After some fifty metres of traversing, John tries to peer over the lip of a cliff down the slopes where he expects camp Three to be, but all he can see is powdery snow being blown off the side of the mountain. They should also have reached the better fixed ropes. John is certain they're still on the route because they're clipped onto the bloody ropes, but there's nothing there. He gives the rope a good tug, and nearly yelps when he can easily start pulling more and more of it back. It must have come loose from the anchor in the main ropes.

_Buggering fucking––_

He installs two ice screw and sets the rope up so that they will catch their fall. Still, they can't move forward unless they find out the right direction. He has a niggling sense that there's something he has forgotten, something else he has done wrong besides not attaching the thinner rope to the anchor properly, but what is it?

_The radio!_

He drops his chin close to the receiver and has to twist the nob a whole round twice before anyone picks up. The connection is dodgy, raspy and keeps disappearing, but he's certain he's hearing Valerie calling out his name in response to his 'hello's.

"It's John. Over. I repeat it's John, over."

"Valer–––John, where–––over!"

"We should be at the ropes already; we're above Camp Three just after the couloir. Over."

"----not there!" Valerie replies, and John can't make out whether she's expressing her own surprise or confirming his suspicion.

_Are the fixed ropes gone?_

"Can't hear you! Over!" John yells into the radio, turns to glance at Sherlock, and then has to quickly grab hold of the sleeve of the man's jacket to jerk him back from leaning away from the rope. They are well attached to the mountainside, but John is not in the mood to take risks. Sherlock is looking up into the darkening cloud cover, leaning his head so far back that he's forced to take a staggering step back, which then leads to a bit of arm-flailing and John shoving him against the slope with a curse.

"––lanche!" John finally catches from the radio. "–––Three gone–– nche! Swept the whole–– morning. Over!"

Maybe John hadn't been shoddy with the ropes, after all: if Camp Three is gone, then the avalanche must have travelled down along their route, ripping out the ropes.

_No time to mourn the camp, we need a plan B._

"––until morning––wait–––Over!" Valerie says.

"We can't fucking wait; we're at 7800 metres!" John yells.

But, Valerie is probably right, judging by the puzzle John has now put together regarding their circumstances. Visibility is approaching zero, and without fixed ropes between Camp Three and where they are and Sherlock still acting erratically, there's no way John can get them down safely with so much of his dominant hand buster. The snow the avalanche has brought down will be unstable, so they couldn't use the Camp Three area to overnight, especially since it's on the side of the mountain now most severely exposed to the winds. They'll have to stay to the left of the ridge separating them from what used to be, find a sheltered spot to weather the night. They need to get lower, but they can move only as far as their rope extends. John needs to find them a safe spot, preferably under a cliff ledge to keep them from being swept off the mountain. They might get snowed in, but digging out a makeshift snow bivouac is not the worst idea; snow is a good insulator.

They move forward a few metres, and then John nearly trips over something which turns out to be not a rock but the stash of oxygen bottles the Sherpas had left on the route. He wants to cry from relief: they _are_ where the fixed ropes used to be, after all. They have oxygen, and John has the emergency pack of extra water, food and medical supplies with him. Unless hypothermia, HAPE or HACE takes them, they could make it. Could. Just barely.

He refuses to think about the staggering odds that they won't.

The radio rattles again. John nearly weeps from relief when Mince's voice comes in. It's easier to hear in the wind that's starting to imitate a freight train than Valerie's soprano. "John? Over."

"I'm here! How am I hearing you so well? Over."

"Valerie climbed to Camp Two with the main radio; that's why you couldn't hear shit from her the last time you called. Over."

John quickly relays their location and the fact that they can't head down.

"Keep left of where you see the band of bare rock. We can't see you with the telescope, but Tenzing remembers it was still bare when he went through and might be recognisable even in the blizzard. You need to find a ledge some five metres lower; it's downwind. How are the two of you holding up? Over."

"Holmes is a bit, well, out of it, but functional. I think I broke a finger. Over."

"We'll come up, fix a new set up to you in the morning; the weather radar looks as though this will pass soon. You can do this," Mince pleads. "You _have_ to. I know you can. If anyone can, it's you. Over."

John shouldn't need such reassurance, shouldn't feel comforted by such a promise no one can really make, but it's all he's got. "Yeah, we kind of have to, over," he replies needlessly.

The radio rattles. "Johnny? Stay fucking safe up there; we're coming for you, I promise. You're not even in the real Death Zone anymore," the New Zealander quips.

Mince isn't completely right. There is no official altitude limit at which the Death Zone ends or begins, and certainly, most of Annapurna's heights would qualify, judging by the danger level.

"John?" Mince asks. "Spare your battery. You need to tell us where you are in the morning. Over."

John ignores the pain in his fingers and grips the radio with both hands, leaning against the snowy slope. He knows he needs to stop talking to conserve power, but it suddenly feels terrifying to cut that connection to safety.

 _'Tell us where you are in the morning if you're still alive'_ is what Mince should have said but couldn't.

John finds consolation in the fact that at least everyone else is safely back at Camp Two or Base Camp. By some definitions, he's done his duty regarding what the clients hired him for. But, by his own definition, his biggest job is still ahead.

He needs to survive the night at the cruising altitude of an aeroplane in a snowstorm, and make sure Sherlock does the same.  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many climbers carry dexamethasone for the purpose explained here. It will not cure HAPE or HACE, but it can buy precious time to get someone down safely. Corticosteroids such as dexamethasone are used in the OR, too, to lessen many sorts of tissue swelling and prevent nausea. They are also prescribed to patients with brain tumours to reduce swelling around the tumour.  
> Another drug used by mountaineers is called acetazolamide (Diamox) which is used to prevent and treat altitude sickness. It forces the kidneys to excrete bicarbonate, making blood more acidic. This fools the body into thinking it has an excess of carbon dioxide and thus needs to breathe more. Deeper and faster breathing then increases the amount of oxygen in the blood, which can speed up acclimatization. There are some other drugs which are used in treatment and prevention of altitude issues; we shall discuss those later. Especially one of them may surprise you…
> 
> [This episode of _Everest—Beyond the Limit_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=I7-oMh8rRtA) illustrates the effects of high altitude and hypoxia and summit fever on climbers' judgement.
> 
> Hallucinations at altitude [do happen](https://www.livescience.com/61220-altitude-climbing-can-cause-psychosis.html). The phenomenon has even been [described in medical literature](https://www.cambridge.org/core/services/aop-cambridge-core/content/view/C2BCDEDCB0C6415B16531008857D730C/S0033291717003397a.pdf/isolated_psychosis_during_exposure_to_very_high_and_extreme_altitude_characterisation_of_a_new_medical_entity.pdf). One climber [gave her shoe to a hallucination](http://www.newser.com/story/254884/rescued-climber-tells-of-killer-mountain-ordeal.html).


	13. Just The Two of Us Against The Rest of The World

>   
> _"Success is not counted by how high you have climbed but by how many people you brought with you."_  
>  – Will Rose

  
  
Because of the complete whiteout they are in, it takes John fifteen minutes to find the area about which Mince had explained. The wind knocks them around violently, and John counts his lucky stars that Sherlock can walk on his own—at least for now. It's just that his sense of direction seems to be non-existent; John has to keep him close lest he tries to wander off in another direction and make John lose his balance. At least muscle memory is telling Sherlock what to do with his crampons and his ice axe even if he doesn't quite know what to do with himself.

A bare patch of rock is visible underneath a ledge; high snow banks have already built up around it. Inside what now looks like a pen but what will soon become a tiny snow cave they should be sheltered from the wind. John mutters a thanks to Mince— the man been right on the money. Bivouacking this high in a storm is never a good idea, but they don't have any options. This spot is the best they could hope for in such circumstances: once enough snow has been blown over it, a natural igloo-like bivouac will have formed. Snow is an excellent insulator, and many a climber has survived by digging themselves into snow banks to keep warm.

John takes the lead again, and soon they arrive at the bare patch. He shoves a cam into a crack and moves the end of the sling connecting him to Sherlock from his harness to the cam. The next twenty minutes John spends dragging four of the spare oxygen bottles to where they are. Once they're safely piled up underneath the ledge, he unfastens Sherlock from the cliff face, and then collapse into a heap of limbs and crampons and ice axes onto the bare patch. John's injured fingers must be swollen since the innermost layer of his gloves now feels tight. He drops his pack next to them and digs out a foam pad used under sleeping bags to insulate sleeping climbers from the cold ground. He always keeps one on him.

John jostles the two of them sitting side by side so that the pad is under both their bottoms, and they take their time to catch their breath and rest. Snow keeps banking up around them, and soon it gets darker as the snow walls rise higher. John turns on his headlamp, then fumbles around to check if Sherlock has one in a pocket he could reach. The man is nearly dead weight in his arms, and John lifts the ski goggles off his face to reveal his eyes now that they are no longer in threat of snow blindness. His lids have drifted closed, and through the heavy altitude clothing, John can see that his breathing no longer comes in short pants but deeper, slower inhalations and exhalations. If he could see the man's mouth underneath the oxygen mask, John is certain that the blueish tint he'd seen when putting the mask in place would be gone. The spare bottles should provide enough oxygen to last them until the morning, assuming the snowstorm will have passed by then and those coming to aid them could safely ascend.

John coughs, swallowing down the coppery sputum it brings to his mouth. The oxygen isn't moisturised, and the air up here is dry, putting a strain on their mucosal lining, but he has been bringing up more stuff during the past hour than before. Still, he wouldn't worry just yet—breathing hasn't gotten any harder than it had been at the start of their summit bid. Even if he's developing pulmonary oedema, it's not going to threaten his life for some time. The course of HAPE is easier to predict and is often slower than with cerebral oedema. It's Sherlock he needs to worry about, not himself.

He leans to the side to have a more thorough look at his patient, draping his arm tighter around the man who instantly relaxes even more against his chest. John shoves an errant sweaty curl back under his balaclava before it turns into a blackish icicle. He checks both their oxygen bottles again—no need to swap them for fresh ones yet. The old systems didn't come with demand valves that only deliver oxygen when the climber is inhaling, meaning that they were wasteful and thus needed to be bigger. The new systems John had convinced James to invest in have been a marketing asset and are now being a potential lifesaver.

Sherlock mutters something, his eyes remaining closed; John thinks he can make out the words 'cab' and 'pink', which make no fucking sense whatsoever.

"It's alright. Have a nap; I'll keep watch," John promises. Inside their shelter, it's now easier to talk since the snow walls are tuning out most of the sound of the storm.

John is not sure he can stay awake himself; his thinking seems sufficiently clear not to be affected by the altitude to any dangerous degree, but he wouldn't be the first climber to think they were fine, only to be stricken with an irresistible desire just to  sit down on a snowbank and keel over and die mere moments later.

Sherlock shifts and presses his balaclava-covered cheek against John's shoulder, and judging by the snoring that soon begins, is doing as he'd been told. John locks his hands around the younger man's shoulders, careful not to move his broken fingers too much. They're throbbing, but the layered gloves are keeping them in a position straight enough that it helps avoid straining them, so it's okay. At least the pain will help in staying awake, and the adrenaline will help keep him alive. _Hopefully._ It's just that pain increases the circulation in his fingers, which increases the loss of warmth. Then again, that will also keep the capillaries open which might prevent frostbite damage. _Who the fuck knows what the total is. They're just fingers. I can do without a couple._

The rational side of John knows he should be scared, that he should be fighting a panic to descend, and it's odd how calm he feels. He doesn't like thinking about the fact that, apart from these moments in the death zone, his life feels rather meaningless. He does what he's told, measures time by his guiding assignments, drifts from one mountain to another for the benefit of clients. Summiting yesterday had underlined how permanently benched and side-lined he has felt for the past few years. Convincing himself that it was just the price he had to pay to stick to a good enough relationship had once worked, but something about this expedition had poked a hole in that self-deception.

_Something or someone?_

He had come to the mountains because he wanted to feel in control of his life, but he isn't, not anymore. His time belongs to the company, and he is obligated to try to care about the lives of those who would care little for his. They pay him to curb their summit fever when it gets dangerous, and his own desire to climb to the roof of the world always plays second fiddle to their dreams about Himalayan conquest. He doesn't know the people he guides well enough to trust them, yet their lives are his responsibility.

Except for Sherlock's. John is here, now, risking his life for the man, because he wants to, not because he's being paid to do it. He's here because he cannot come up with a single more worthy or precious or essential thing he could be doing than make sure Sherlock survives the night.

 _Nowhere else I'd rather be_ , he thinks sarcastically, and hysteria twists his lips up into a grin.

Is he having some sort of an early mid-life crisis? Is that why he had felt so strangely drawn, so irrationally responsible for a man who had shunned all attempts others had made to be on his side? Is he behaving like this because, above all, he wants to prove to himself that he isn't just a guide-for-hire, that he's still a _mountaineer_?

John doesn't want to climb alone. He doesn't want to _be_ alone. He's tired of feeling only resentment, regret, bitterness and the dull thrum of routine and loss of control. He feels the most alone when in the middle of a crowded base camp, the weight of responsibility heavy on his shoulders, knowing that, while no law enforcement agency would probably scrutinise his decision-making out here if something went wrong, the judgmental eye of the climbing community would not hesitate to be after-wise from the safety of their armchairs at home to second-guess his acts. And, there's always the fact that John is his own worst enemy and his own worst critic.

Everyone had insisted that it wasn't his fault what had happened to Mark Wick, but even now, years later, a part of him is convinced that if he'd only been smarter, if he'd only found the right words to say to the man, Wick would have turned back. When preparing to guide clients to the top, he doesn't worry about his climbing skills—he worries about his people skills. He has no training in how to make people see sense when their brains have been rendered nearly useless by altitude and the compulsion to stand on a mountaintop. Human error accounts for a staggering percentage of climbing accidents; freak strikes of nature cover the rest.

This time, he doesn't walk away. This time, he's going to fight, with everything he's got.

John presses his chin atop Sherlock's head, letting the proximity of another person console him for a moment. He feels nearly guilty for using a sleeping man for his own comfort like this; still, up here, needs must, and things always settle into a more innocent perspective. It's Maslow's hierarchy of needs in action—food, safety, comfort.

He digs out a protein bar from his pack, cursing the cold as he's forced to slide off his topmost glove to be able to work a small zipper. He already knows he's risking frostbite, but Sherlock is hardly exempt, either. John makes a mental note to try to get chemical heat packs into Sherlock's gloves within the hour.

He isn't sure if it's dark outside yet, or whether the snow blowing across the ledge has simply gotten so thick that it has blocked the light. With their oxygen, they'll be alright even if they get sealed in for some of the night; that would keep them warm, and the snow is so powdery dry that a swift kick will create a hole big enough to vent the area of too much carbon dioxide. In the morning, they can use their axes to create a way out if the plummeting night temperatures firm up the walls.

_That's assuming we make it through the night._

John shoves Sherlock's shoulder and gets a sleepy hum as a reply. He continues shoving. After a minute, eyes that sparkle in the greenish hues of volcanic lakes and a bright England summer sky snap open, the look in the man's eyes sharp and observant. It's in stark contrast to his earlier sluggishness and unfocused gaze.

"What?" Sherlock demands.

"Just wanted to make sure you weren't getting worse," John assures him. "Can you tell me the date and where we are?"

Sherlock looks indignant at such an elementary inquiry. "Fifteenth of May 2017, somewhere between Camp Three and the summit of Annapurna I. I certainly hope _you_ don't need to be reminded of any of that."

He no longer sounds confounded—or serene, in that creepy way that's typical of cerebral oedema. John is relieved but tries to keep in mind that the dex is only a temporary measure. The oxygen must have helped as well. "Camp Three's gone. Avalanche. But yeah, spot on."

They shove their oxygen masks aside to share a drink of water; the contents of the bottle John had grabbed from Tenzing's utility tent are still lukewarm. John eats half the protein bar and is disappointed when Sherlock declines the other half. "You need the energy."

"I'm quite certain I'll throw up if I try to stomach that. Those wheat protein things are revolting."

John digs out an alternate offering—a slightly squashed KitKat which Sherlock deems acceptable and devoures promptly.

They keep having to shift on the pad so that they'd both be on it, so eventually, John suggests that Sherlock sit between his legs and lean back so that they'd be in a line instead of wrestling for space side by side.

"I'm not an invalid," Sherlock argues and glares at John who is repositioning the oxygen mask on his face.

"Not yet, but you will be, if you lose half your arse to frostbite," John argues and manhandles him into position. He checks both their radios; the connection indicator is flat, meaning that there's no signal inside the impromptu snow cave. The battery in his own is low, but there's plenty of juice in Sherlock's. John isn't going to waste time and energy to radio in to Camp Two during the night; they can't send anyone up until morning arrives and the storm ends.

John tries not to think about the fact that not many have spent a night in or close to the Death Zone and survived. Even fewer have done so with a nearly useless hand and while trying to look after someone teetering at the edge of HACE.

Pinned between Sherlock and the cliff, John finally manages to relax a bit. The cold is seeping into the bones of his feet, so he has to keep wiggling them in his boots, but for the rest of him, it helps to have a warm body to lean against.

Sherlock twists his torso a bit to study his expression, eyes flitting inquisitively across his facial features as through cataloguing things. "What was the first mountain you ever climbed?" he asks out of the blue.

"Crib Goch and Mount Snowdon. It was a school trip," John explains. "You?"

"My father took me to the Alps when I was six. We climbed the north spur of La Tresenta via the Glacier di Moncorve. We then headed for Breithorn, and I convinced him not to use the Klein Matterhorn lift; instead, we climbed the whole way from the village."

Sherlock speaking Italian sounds like thick treacle poured into John's ear—decadent and addictive. _I bet he speaks French, too_. At Base Camp, one of the Brits had been quoting a magazine article about Sherlock, claiming that he'd attended some pretty expensive private schools in England and France. John recalls that Sherlock's father had died in a car accident when he was still underage.

"I wish I'd had someone who took me climbing as a kid," John replies. "My foster family only took me to Blackpool once a year. I woke up to the whole climbing thing after medical school when my sister twisted my arm so that I'd spend my first paycheck as a doctor to come to Nepal."

It sounds like Sherlock had developed a taste for the heights at a young age; maybe he needs the challenge to keep his obviously volatile temper and impatience in check. John remembers what he'd said about wanting to shoot walls when getting bored between climbs. He knows the feeling; the painful, anxious restlessness of having to stay put in Kathmandu waiting for news on the next climb; watching other people— _normal people, sane people?_ —go about their business, the height of excitement of their days being the chaotic traffic of rush hour in the Nepalese capital. The walls of John's small apartment always eventually begin to feel as though they are caving in, making him unable to concentrate on a movie or a book.

"I can imagine you being a pain in the arse as a kid if you didn't have something to pour your energy into," John muses. "Maybe that applies as an adult, too."

"Maybe you're the same. You didn't want an ordinary life, either," Sherlock points out, turning slightly so that his cheek is pressed against John's neck. He reaches up to replace the oxygen mask on his nose and mouth, closing his eyes.

John bites his lip. Even at a young age, he had always needed something to look forward to, lest he gets moody worrying about the rest of his life only consisting of boring routine until retirement. "Maybe."

He lets his eyes drift shut for a moment, relishing the way everything feels so much less complicated up here. It doesn't matter what happened before Annapurna, and it doesn't matter what happens after. He loves, hates, fears and _needs_ these icy heights because they make everything so much simpler. All the words that are used to categorised and define people are meaningless here. His name doesn't matter; his past doesn't matter—all that matters are the decisions he makes, the kind of man he is. He can't imagine a worthier way to go than when climbing, but he isn't ready for that yet, not for a long time.

  
-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-  
  


  
John wakes up with a jolt some hours later, disoriented and entirely unsure how long he has slept. He starts coughing like mad, gasping for air in between the racking fits. He doesn't feel cold but is shivering, and sweat prickles on his forehead, making the edge of his merino wool balaclava itch. He often gets palpitations when waking up in altitude, but now comes a series of flops that feels like his heart is trying to vault out through his throat. He tries to stifle another coughing fit, but that only makes matters worse: once he lets the impulse have free rein, it doesn't stop until he sees tiny black dots from lack of oxygen.

The mask has slipped off his face, and it turns out that the left strap has broken, probably because he's been leaning against the ice-covered rock face behind them and the thin rubber has been chafing against it. Finally, the convulsive coughing subsides, and he spits out the disgusting blob of blood-flecked foam that has risen to his mouth. He presses the mask back on his face, turns up the flow. The hiss of oxygen provides a soothing placebo effect before any of the life-saving gas has even diffused through his lung membranes. Not that it's doing so very effectively; judging by his symptoms, the tissues surrounding the air sacks in his lungs are filling with fluid, impairing oxygenation. This happens to all climbers in altitude to some extent, but when it starts interfering with their ability to function, it's known as high-altitude pulmonary oedema. The pressure up here isn't enough to keep the fluid where it belongs.

Slowly, the fog his brain seems to be floating in begins to clear.

Sherlock shifts in his arms before attempting to sit up straight. He isn't balancing well or carrying his weight properly even in this position, so John can't release his right arm from around his waist even though Sherlock feebly tries to push it away.

John glances at the door he had been keeping open so that they won't get trapped; a kick tells him that they can still easily crawl out.

Suddenly, Sherlock jerks into leaning forward with a violent coughing fit that brings up the same bloody froth John had just expelled.

John holds his breath, waiting for it to pass, and it does, leaving Sherlock wheezing and gasping for breath. He starts fumbling for something in his pocket, then gives up. His movements have become ataxic again, and he's blinking hard.

"You okay, mate?" John croaks; the brutally dry, cold air is making him hoarse.

Sherlock mutters something, rubbing his closed eyelids clumsily with his mitten-covered hands.

"Notss–– not scared," Sherlock finally manages to parse together.

"Good, that's–– good," John replies. His first instinct would be to tell his companion that _fuck yes you should be scared you bloody idiot_ , but the doctor in him knows that frightening someone who's not well will amount to nothing.

Fearlessness, an unnatural sense of calm even in the face of impending disaster is a sign of cerebral oedema. It can also mark severe hypothermia.

"Was scared once. Couldn't––couldn't stop it," Sherlock slurs.

"I'd be surprised to hear that a climber had never been scared shitless," John replies and readjusts their position; Sherlock's head is lolling backwards against his shoulder. "I wouldn't believe them. What happened?"

"Icefall," Sherlock explains, and he doesn't have to specify which one.

Even a mention of the Khumbu icefall on Everest will put the fear of the mountain gods even into the hearts of very experienced climbers. The daunting obstacle low on the mountain that has claimed more lives than any other part of Everest consists of a forest of towering seracs and bottomless-looking crevasses. John remembers the first time he'd had to negotiate it; it had been a freezing cold day, and all they'd managed to get done was some ice axe practice to make sure everyone in the expedition was up to par on their skills. A snow-laden wind had blown through the icefall, the seracs parting it like the spikes of a comb.

The outstandingly exposed upper parts of K2 could have been worse than Khumbu, but John's team had exceptional luck with their weather and their summit day on the so-called _Savage mountain_ had been one of John's most effortless on any eight-thousander. _Not that 'effortless' describes any aspect of Himalayan climbing_. John remembers making his way up the so-called black pyramid section of the Abruzzi Spur route—a long, dangerously exposed technical section of the climb—and thinking that something bad was bound to happen soon since everything felt too easy. On their way down, they heard from the radio that an Italian climber had succumbed to altitude sickness an hour before his evacuation flight was due in. John's team escaped the mountain unscathed, and certainly knew how lucky they were.

Besides, one had only to negotiate the Black Pyramid twice when climbing K2. To climb Everest, the Icefall is a low altitude thoroughfare one has to negotiate dozens of times during a summit bid.

"I'd be happy if I never had to go through that damned place again," John confirms.

Sherlock is trying to get into his pocket again, and John finally realises that what he's fumbling for is the pocket of his middle layer trousers. He rescinds the job of digging out whatever has been stashed there to John without a fight.

"Not s––scared now," Sherlock repeats, nearly toppling over to the side when John has to let go of him to operate the pocket zipper momentarily.

At a loss for words, John pats his arm. The repeated statement frightens him because it's evidence how far removed from reality Sherlock is.

"Need to go––" Sherlock mutters, "––down."

"Spot on," John says. "We'll do that in the morning once Mince can bring help."

Nearly breaking the zipper as he shoves his hand into the small pocket, John manages to pull out a small, thermally wrapped plastic case from the pocket.

Opening it, his eyes go wide. He has seen many small emergency kits that climbers carry, but this is something else entirely. There's a small container of nifedipine tablets—a calcium channel blocker that may well help combat pulmonary oedema, two ready-to-use syringes of dexamethasone that should help with the brain swelling now that the first dose seems to be wearing off. There's ibuprofen—not a good idea right now since they're probably both getting dehydrated, but the paracetamol should be safe for headaches and pains. There's Diamox, caffeine… and Viagra.

John knows why it's there, but the absurdity doesn't escape him. Developed originally as a blood pressure medication, it turned into a wonder drug for erectile dysfunction when that fortunate side effect was discovered. The newest potential purpose for it is enhancing performance at high altitude and buying time for a stricken climber to get down by preventing high-altitude pulmonary hypertension—the mechanism behind pulmonary oedema.

Even though he can't put together a long and coherent enough sentence to explain to John what he had in his pocket, Sherlock has still managed to combine enough functional brain cells to try to get to his emergency kit. Suddenly giddy with hope and surprise, John plants an energetic kiss on the man's Sherlock's hood and then retrieves one of the two water thermoses he has in his pack.

His first course of action is to use one of the dexamethasone injections on himself. He can't afford for his lungs to get worse, and he needs every ounce of strength if he's to help get both of them down to safety.

Then, he rouses Sherlock who has dozed off again and gets him to take paracetamol, nifedipine and Viagra, one tablet each. His coordination is so shot that John has to raise the thermos to his lips and tip it so that he can flush down the tablets.

"Who knows, maybe we'll get you a mention in the Guinness Book of Records for the highest stiffy in history," John jokes, and Sherlock simply stares at him, bleary-eyed. "Consolation price for having to use the oh-two."

Sherlock puts up no fight at all when John rearranges him into a different position so that he can reveal a sliver of thermal underwear-clad thigh for just long enough to administer the other dex shot. Then, he makes sure Sherlock is zipped up warmly again, gloves and boots properly on with heat packs shoved inside, and that he has actually swallowed what John had given him instead of falling asleep with the tablets in his mouth like a horse nodding off with a bit of hay hanging from their muzzle.

John closes his eyes for a moment, the fatigue overwhelming. Many climbers are killed by the desire just to stop and sleep; hypothermia can be a gentle way to go. When it's severe enough, climbers might actually feel hot and start to remove articles of clothing. They lie down, nod off, then becomes one of the frozen human statues seen along the way to the tops of the world's highest mountain. A climber whose real name everyone has forgotten lies in a cave not far from the summit of Mount Everest; he's known as Green Boots. John has seen him more than a dozen times. He looks like he's sleeping.

  
-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-  
  
  


John doesn't know how long he sleeps before the rumble of an avalanche close by awakens him with a start.

A quick survey as his brain sputters back online gives a reassuring result: his breathing doesn't feel any worse, the avalanche hasn't hit them, and he doesn't think he's getting severely frostbitten yet. He shoves a new seat of heat packs into his gloves; his toes don't feel stiff or tingly. _Good_.

Sherlock starts keeling over to the right—John doesn't know why, so he shoves him back upright, realising then that his balance had tipped when he'd been trying to tighten the straps of his oxygen mask.

John checks the status of Sherlock's bottle—empty. "Sorry," he mutters as he reaches out for one of the spare bottles from the stash the Sherpas had left behind. "Should have checked earlier."

Sherlock tries to participate by opening the valve, but the ataxia and general clumsiness of his hands make John pry them away so that he could sort it out. But, his injured fingers are so painfully swollen that he can't manage a good grip, and the valve won't budge. He grunts in frustration, shoves the parts into his patient's lap and with a strict set of instructions, Sherlock manages to attach the bottle to the valve.

John realises he can't be far from running out himself, so Sherlock gets to help him with attaching his own mask valve to a second full bottle.

John wants to scream at frustration over his fingers. If help doesn't arrive in the morning, they need to be able to belay one another down to Camp Two. John doesn't want to think about how slim a chance there is that they'd succeed, just the two of them, in their current state which is bound to get worse before dawn.

As long as there _is_ a chance, he has to believe in it for both of them.

"Why would you come after me?" Sherlock asks, his voice muted and slightly distorted by the hiss of the oxygen mask. He sounds more like himself; the meds must have kicked in.

John realises that the wind has died down a bit, but a glance at his watch tells him that it must still be dark outside.

Then, the wording of Sherlock's question registers: why _would_ you, instead of why _did_ you.

"Of course I would," John reassured him. "Regardless of who's paying for what, we're in this together. Wouldn't you have done the same if you were at Camp Three and heard someone was stranded higher up?"

John wouldn't have been surprised at a _no_ , considering the opinions Sherlock has expressed on the matter of climber solidarity. But, his answer comes without delay: "Yes." His tone is terse. "If I was in a state to do so."

This confirms John's theory that it's just Sherlock's own life of which the man doesn't see the value. _That has to change._ "So, you think that person's life would have been worth enough to risk yours?"

"Wasn't that what I said?" Instead of indignant, Sherlock sounds a bit confused but not in the way he'd been earlier. No, this is a normal conversation instead of the dreamy incoherence of HACE.

Relief floods into John. Sherlock's head clearing to this extent means that they still have time to sit out the storm. "Why do you think yours is worth less, then?"

"What is worth less?"

"Your life," John says pointedly, "Why wouldn't–– why _shouldn't_ someone do the same for you? You can't write off the old ways just by being a knob and telling everyone to piss off. Your life is still worth the same as everyone else's."

His answer is silence.

John remembers Sherlock's words about feeling less lonely on a summit bid. Would he have cared if he met his end in this frozen vertical desert?

The thought gives John an even stronger resolve to get the two of them the hell out of here. He has met mountaineers like Sherlock before, who have little else in their lives than the climbing, and if they lose motivation for it, there's nothing left.

John used to have more. He used to be happy. He used to have a partner, even if that partner's heart wasn't in this the way his own is.

What is missing from Sherlock's life to make him so miserable that he wouldn't care if he became the Green Boots of Annapurna?

Sherlock puffs up his chest and presses his hands on his hips as he bends his pelvis forward in an awkward stretch—his back must be getting stiff having leaned on John all night. Then, he slumps back against John with a grimace.

"Talk to me, mate. How are your fingers?"

"Fine. Toes the same. I can feel them, so that's something."

"Headache?"

"Bad," Sherlock admits.

John digs out of his pack a chemical stick to complement the headlamp he had hung from a bit of ice next to them, but Sherlock raises his arm in protest. "The light's––not good. Where are we?" he then asks, sounding suddenly very confused.

"A snow cone above Camp Three, but we're getting down," John promises.

"What––" Sherlock starts, then frowns, trying to decide what even to ask. "What happened up there?"

"I don't even know where to start," John says. A coughing fit hits, and it's a bad one, making him feel like he's about to sprain something. At least he hasn't snapped a rib yet, which is not a rare occurrence with HAPE. John realises he hasn't had an urge to pee in a worrying number of hours—neither of them has been drinking enough. As much as he's tried to keep on track of everything, the altitude is making him neglectful and slow.

"Do we have any dex left?" Sherlock asks. "You should take some."

Part of why John enjoys being a doctor in these remote corners of the world looking after climbers is that they expect him to be brutally honest with them. No bullshitting. Any illness, no matter how minor, can be a matter of life and death. "Sorry, all gone. My second syringe is frozen solid, and we've used yours. I'll be fine for a while."

He'd tried tapping the syringe again the ice to see if the fluid moved, and the plastic self-injector had cracked in half.

"Even this amount of light is irritating," Sherlock complains and squeezes his eyes shut. "Headache's gotten worse in the last hour if that's even possible."

John wonders if Sherlock realises that what he is experiencing is the return of the cerebral oedema which had nearly caused him to take a stroll off a cliff yesterday. Rubbing that in would benefit no one; keeping in good spirits is just as important as climbing skills up here. "Good to know. Keep me up to date."

He gets Sherlock to lie down on the pad and uses his ice axe to cut a hole in the snow which he can crawl through on all fours. It's dark outside—just as he had assumed—but the snowing has stopped. The wind is still brisk but not storm-level, and without a whiteout, the conditions should allow for someone to attempt ascending. He had popped a paracetamol before falling asleep, but it's doing little to alleviate the pain from his fingers. He had briefly taken off his glove to assess the damage: his thumb is nearly unrecognisable, more of a bloated bruise than a digit. There's no way he can grip a jumar with it, and he would likely need his other hand to help Sherlock descend. He can't get them both down—he's barely in a state to get himself down the mountain even if he had fixed ropes and a pair of helping hands available.

He also can't rely on Sherlock remaining sensible for much longer; once the cerebral oedema kicks in proper again, he might become akin to a three-year-old trying his damnedest to do the craziest thing his swollen brain comes up with as it loses the ability to reason and assess danger.

John turns away from their snow shelter and finds a more barren spot with older ice where his crampons find good grip for standing. With his good hand, he swings an ice axe into a crack and uses a sling to attach himself to it.

He curses when he realises he should have brought Sherlock's radio with its fuller battery. There should be enough in his own for a short conversation. It's hard to work the device with his gloves on, but he can't risk frostbite.

His third try gets him a rattle, but then he hears his name being called loud and clear in a familiar voice.

"Valerie?" John asks, then remembers to add, "Over?"

"God, John, I am so glad to hear from you! Over!" Her voice comes through, loud and clear. John can hear panting breathing after—it sounds as though she's doing something strenuous.

 _You're still alive_ , is what the Frenchwoman doesn't say but what can be read between the lines of her openly astonished tone. It's not a statement about John's abilities as a climber, simply an acknowledgement of the danger level they're operating in. Not a lot of people can boast having survived a bivouac on an eight-thousander. Or, even half a bivouac—technically, it's still night time.

"Wind's better, and the snow has stopped; we're on our way up already! Can you flash your torch? Over?" Valerie asks, and John instantly starts fumbling for it from his pack. He flicks it on with his broken fingers, grimacing from the pain, and swings it in an arc.

"I see you!" Valerie yells into the radio. "I've got Mince and Pemba and Tenzing and Pasang and Hakon with me; we're coming! Are you right by the overhang Mince explained about? Do you think you could get back to where the fixed route was? Over."

"I don't think so, not on our own," John admits; "Holmes is not doing well, and I've got some busted-up fingers."

"You can stay where you are; it's fine. Over."

"Have you got dex?" John remembers to ask after hacking up what feels like half a lung. "We've still got two bottles of oxygen, and if you've got more, then we'll be fine. I'm signing off. Best spare some battery. John over."

"It's an hour until sunrise. See you soon, over!" Valerie promises, sounding relieved.

Anything could still happen, of course—avalanche, Sherlock getting worse, John getting worse—but they've survived the wait. They could have been hit by the avalanche that decimated Camp Three, or gotten swept off the mountain by a gust of wind, succumbed to hypothermia or oedema, tripped and fallen––

 _No_ , John tells himself. _Don't think about it._

He shoves the radio into his pack, the battery now thoroughly depleted and pushes through the snow walls back into their makeshift cave. Shaking off the snow now covering his shoulders, he crawls on all fours to Sherlock. If he can get both of them out of the cave, they'll be easier to find. The snow walls haven't frozen solid, so it shouldn't be much of a job to take down one of them.

But, first things first.

Sherlock is lying on the pad, and his hood covers most of his face, the oxygen mask the rest. John pushes it away so that he can see his eyes. They flutter open when John pats his shoulder, and it takes a moment for recognition to dawn in Sherlock's gaze.

John kneels next to him wraps his arms around the man and holds on tight.

"They're coming," John mutters into his shoulder. "We'll be alright."

Of course, this is a promise he can't make—anything could still happen, but then again, anything _could_ have happened already, and it didn't.

_We'll be alright. We have to be._   
  



	14. The Descent

>  
> 
> _"I wasn't used to being guided. To be guided, you advocate your own decision making, your own judgement, you listen to what the captain of the ship orders you to do and you have to do it. The system doesn't work otherwise."_  
>  – Jon Krakauer

 

The wait is long.

John tries to keep himself busy by changing their oxygen bottles for full ones, but just as before, it's nearly impossible to grip anything with his throbbing, swollen hand. Violent coughing fits are getting more frequent, and he fears cracking a rib.

Still, neither of those concerns are as bad as the death grip of worry that is constricting his heart regarding Sherlock. When John shakes his shoulder, he barely opens his eyes, only managing a nonsensical mutter in reply.

"Come _on_ , you bastard!" John curses and pinches him as hard as he can through layers of trouser.

Finally, Sherlock flinches, squeezes his eyes shut tighter, then cracks his lids to reveal bloodshot, unfocused eyes. "Jhn––" he mutters—or at least John thinks so. It's hard to make out even well-pronounced words from underneath the oxygen mask.

John kicks a bigger hole into the snow wall to see better. The sun is finally rising.

"They're coming," he tells Sherlock. "They're coming, and we'll get you down."

"You––too."

"Yeah. Not staying here another minute if I can help it," John confirms. "Need anything? Paracetamol?"

Sherlock slowly raises a hand to rub his face, then looks dismayed when it's not his fingers that make contact with his skin but a thick glove.

 _It's just as well—he could have poked out an eye with the level of coordination he's currently got_ , John thinks. He grabs Sherlock's hand when a bit of random waving around seems to turn into an attempt to remove his gloves.

He wonders what kind of a night Mince and Tenzing had had. They must have stayed at Camp Two, waiting for Valerie and the others to climb up. The wind must have been terrible even down there; maybe they had been hanging on to the tent poles for dear life, fearing it would turn first into a hang-glider and then a death trap as it plummeted down into the valley floor, thrown off by a gust.

John arranges Sherlock to lie down on the insular pad again, making sure his upper body is elevated to lessen brain swelling. Even lying horizontally could increase the pressure at this point.

John crawls to a darker corner of the cave to take a piss. The results are not encouraging; just a trickle of dark brown. Kidney damage might become a serious risk unless they start rehydrating soon. He digs out both his water thermoses, places them next to Sherlock, and manages to push his into a sitting position so that he can squeeze himself between he rock wall and the man to keep him up. It takes John some minutes to rouse him, but with his help Sherlock manages to get down some water and even a paracetamol. His headache must be quite severe. John also carries ibuprofen and morphine, but in their current level of dehydration the ibuprofen might completely wreck kidneys, and he has no idea how Sherlock would react to morphine—might knock him out completely, drug use history or no drugs history. Maybe he'd just used stimulants, which wouldn't be out of place for someone who needs to extra jolt to manage astounding physical feats. He may not have used anything that would have made him unusually tolerant to strong painkillers.

The chore of relieving himself and trying to get some water into both of them has thoroughly sapped John's energy. He's leaning against Sherlock as much as vice versa, and another coughing fit leaves him gasping for breath even with the oxygen flowing.

A part of him wants to ask how the hell he thinks he's going to manage climbing down on his own two feet this exhausted. Firmly, he tries to shove that thought away but it's persistent as a gnat, and the panic begins to rise.

 _I don't want to die here_.

Sherlock shifts against him, raising his head from where it had been leaning on John's shoulder. "No one ever––" he whispers; John can barely even make out the words.

He tries to shush, to make his companion conserve his oxygen and his energy, but Sherlock isn't done. "––cared," he adds, then closes his eyes and crunches his forehead in pain.

The doctor in John feels as though a knife is being twisted in his innards because he can't do more, can't help more. _Do something, anything–––_ "Of course climbers care whether someone makes it or not," he tells Sherlock sternly and shoves his shoulder to keep him awake.

Sherlock tries to sit up but can't; the effort leaves him gasping in pain.

John has seen this before. Severe headache combined with even sitting up increasing it visibly are signs of the brain having swelled so much that it is running out of room in its bony cradle.

John hopes that the group climbing up to meet them is big enough to lower Sherlock down; there's no way he could walk down, not even if assisted by several people.

John curses silently. They're so close. _So damned close_. He's not giving up. He'll never give up. They're going to rest; maybe he should even let Sherlock sleep; non-REM sleep might lower the metabolic requirements of his brain.

He turns up the flow in Sherlock's tank valve. "People would care if you let them," John tells him, and pushes him towards the opposite wall so that Sherlock's head can rest on his lap.

"No," Sherlock protests. His voice is raspy with pain and every word is followed by a heaving inhalation as his drowning lungs try to draw in oxygen. "Just––you."  
  


  
-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-  
  
  


Time slows down. John lets himself lose count of it. He doesn't try to contact anyone on the radio, though the connection could be much better, now. It's no use; they'll arrive when they arrive.

 _I can still feel my feet_. _I can walk. I have to walk._

He can also feel his hands, and his right one is killing him as it is so swollen it barely fits into his glove. _Increased blood flow into injured tissues means heightened risk of frostbite._

He focuses on the pain, rides it, luxuriates in it because as long as he can feel it, he isn't dead.  
  
  


-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-

  
  
At first, John thinks that the wind has picked up again and that it’s collapsing their snow-cave-slash-bivouac, but then it dawns on him that there are mitten-covered hands sticking through its ceiling.

"About fucking time," he slurs through chapped, swollen lips, and starts coughing. This time, a cracking sensation and a sudden, stabbing pain tells him that a rib has been snapped. But, it doesn't matter, because he's _happy_.

He’s never been this utterly, completely, giddily ecstatic to see the face of Valerie Marcel before, and if he had the energy, he’d give both the Sherpas who soon appear beside her a good kiss right on the mouth. Hakon, too. He'd fucking marry Mince right now if he could for raising a warm thermos of tea onto his lips.

He won’t remember what state Sherlock was in when they were found—the others take over looking after him since John is in no condition to do anything but try to survive the climb down without keeling over to a snowbank and turning into an ice sculpture. In his recollections, the climb down to Camp Two is mostly a blur of white snow, bone-crushing relief and teeth-grinding pain as his swollen, cold fingers are forced to work a jumar. Valerie, Hakon and the Sherpas take over the operation of getting Sherlock down while Mince becomes John's human crutch.

At one point, when they stop for a rest, John hears Valerie radio Base Camp, and through the fog of fatigue he managed to parse together that someone has patched James through to her. She offers to let John speak with him, but he waves off the radio and looks in the distance instead, memorising the view that almost killed him and one he hopes never to see again.

At Camp Two, activity picks up as Sherlock can now be placed in a Gamow bag Valerie had brought up and slid down the mountain. It will turn a four-hour descent to Base Camp to a nine-hour one, but the Sherpas would never even consider not going for it—nor would Mince and Valerie. As much as they must sometimes be pragmatic about attempting to help someone who's already beyond aid, they would all agree that it’s a measure of their humanity up here whether they do everything they can or not to save someone. What’s the point of the achievement of the summit, if you crushed others under your boots to get there?

John tries to help, tries to participate in organising the rescue, refuses to accept that he’s still also in need of one. Finally, Mince shoves him into another tent and sits him down with a shot of whisky and two more chocolate bars. "You can help him better when we get down. He’s on oxygen, he’s in the Gamov, Val gave him more dex."

"Can he talk? Is he conscious? I have to––" John starts climbing to his feet again, but Mince shoves him back to sit in a folding chair covered with a woollen throw John has seen Tenzing carrying around.

"No. John, we've got it. You've done your part; now you have to think about yourself. You cough up half a lung every five minutes, you've just spent a night in the fucking Death Zone––"

"Slightly below it, but yeah, technically––"

"For fuck's sake, John," Mince raises his voice, "Sit the fuck down, suck on your O and stop trying to turn into a liability!"

Though it's now much easier to breathe since they have descended a significant distance, John continues to be on oxygen.

He feels slightly embarrassed, now. If he was in Mince's snow boots and Mince in his, he would have said the same. He doesn't like to admit he was just rescued— _the bloody Head Guide getting rescued, Christ fuck_ —but he doesn't have anything left in him to give to Sherlock. He needs to gather his strength to get down to Base Camp once they've rested. Staying even at just Camp Two is doing nothing to cure his HAPE.

"What a fucking idiot,” John mutters before taking a bite of the bread roll Tenzing brings him. "Nobody’s supposed to survive up there without extra oxygen. What’s he trying to prove? That the laws of physics and human anatomy don’t apply to him?"

Mince’s smile scrunches up the man's whole face and it’s like sunlight on a beach.

To John, seeing it feels unreal—that he’s here, at the relative safety of Camp Two, eating stale bread.

Tenzing pours them some tea.

"You know, John––" Mince comments, "––what you did up there sort of makes me think those laws don’t apply to _either_ of you."  
  
  


  
-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-

 

Seven hours later John wraps a coarse woollen blanket tighter around his shoulders and stares at his toes. They're in a vat of hot water supplied by the kitchen tent, and he can barely recognise them. The parts that aren't blistered are pale and hard, and the itching is terrible. As it turns out, the reason why John hadn't thought he'd been developing severe frostbite was because some of his toes were already past the stage where he would have felt the pins and needles.

He might lose a toe or two. Still, better than losing his life. _Still worth it._

What bothers him more are his lungs, which have taken quite a beating. Their descent from Camp Two had been timely, since he has begun to bring up a bit of oedema foam and feeling like he was being slowly strangled. Getting down to Base Camp had helped immensely, but he’s still coughing like a maniac, and start wheezing unless he’s on oxygen.

The two fingers he'd broken or at least sprained don't look much better. Al, an old army medic, had splinted them after they arrived, which makes John utterly useless to help around with most things that need doing in order to prepare for the departure of the group. That's still days away, so Valerie, James, and Mince are trying to decide whether to put John in the helicopter that will be arriving in two hours to pick Sherlock up.

Valerie is keeping an eye on the man. After they got him down to Base Camp, he was placed in a larger and less claustrophobic Gamov bag. According to Valerie he's been mostly sleeping and muttering incoherently. John doesn't like the fact that his head hasn't cleared very much after he'd been brought down after strapping the smaller Gamov to an evacuation sled and rappelling it down the slopes. At least he doesn't seem to have developed much frostbite, and his lungs aren't causing him any more trouble than they should be at this stage after narrowly escaping death. John’s biggest fear is that the brain swelling may have reached a level at which permanent damage had been caused by structures pressing tightly against the natural openings in the skull or even being squeezed through them.

Mince had been the one to help John down the rest of the way as the others struggled with the formidable task of getting Sherlock to Base Camp. Due to the state of John's hands, he and Mince had glissaded down the slopes whenever they could, braking as best they could with their ice axes, clipping onto ropes when more technical climbing was involved. The cold, stormy night had frozen a lot of the fresh snow below the death zone, making axe and crampon work easier as the smooth and compact ice chipped cleanly and held weight well when hit with something sharp, or when a piton was hammered in. The weather was sunny, and the sight of the ridges of ice blown bare of snow by the storm wind refracted light like prisms. It should have looked wonderful, but instead of feeling drunk on the beauty surrounding him like John usually does, the experience had been painful and stale, almost as if he was hung over on Annapurna.

Before, all he'd wanted was to reach the summit. Now, he wants nothing more than to get the hell away from it.

Mince had been quieter than usual on their descent, leaving John to his own thoughts when they weren't negotiating about practical things or Mince wasn't making sure he was up to date on how John was feeling physically.

The tingling in his toes is getting worse. It's a good sign. The same applies to frostbite as is true of burns: deep injuries are the least painful, and vice versa.

The water is getting cold. He should go see Sherlock. He _needs_ to see Sherlock. He needs----- or would that be _wants_? He doesn't know why.

He doesn't want gratitude. He doesn't want a thank you. He doesn't want to risk Sherlock feeling guilty over the fact that John may have lost a few digits because he'd saved a man who had been resistant to the whole idea of others risking themselves for his survival.

John's eyelid twitches—a tic likely brought on by dehydration. A bag of saline hangs from a hook in the tent pole; Al had started an IV on him after he'd said he worried about his kidneys.

He wants to stay, and he wants to leave. He doesn't know what he wants. They _should_ put him on that helicopter out; if he were one of his own patients, it would have been obvious that he needed a hospital. But, the notion of having survived makes everything feels so much less urgent and critical—except for what Sherlock needs. Even the medevac flight to Kathmandu might stretch his already thin physical reserves too much. James had protested about the expenses and the fact that they wouldn't be able to do all that much if things turned dire, but John had demanded that he put a medic from a private hospital on that flight. At first, John had demanded to be the escort himself, but after some more stern words from Mince— _the kid is certainly growing up_ —he had understood that he is still in no state to help anyone else than himself.

After spending a few more moments in quiet thought, John feels a twinge in his bladder—for the third time since they got down. He grabs an empty bottle he has already used twice for this purpose, and is soon happy to see that the colour of what he's producing is a beautiful light yellow.

His lungs may not be doing so great yet, but at least his kidneys aren't giving up.

John decides he doesn't want to leave. He has exorcised the ghost of Mark Wick, and there's little he can do for Sherlock once he's been airlifted out of here. Now that his sense of urgency for doing more is abating, he is marvelling at how great it feels to have the responsibilities of Head Guide suddenly lifted off him. Valerie, Mince, and Al have promised to make sure things run smoothly before and during their departure. All John needs to do is to rest and tag along.

They haven't lost a single climber, assuming Sherlock survives, and even though John is not a superstitious person, something tells him Sherlock should pull through. He has to. It's not possible that John had gone through what he did for it all to have been in vain.

_No._ _Annapurna doesn't get her due. Not today._

Al walks into the tent, and John proudly presents his bottle of pee. "Have you ever seen anything prettier?"

Al snorts. "I'm pretty sure I have." His expression then sobers up. "He wants to see you. Sholto radioed in, said that the chopper left Kathmandu on schedule and it should be here in half an hour."

"He?"

"Holmes."

"He's lucid?"

"If you can call it that. I told him you were on a drip and recovering yourself, but he was quite insistent. He's been getting pretty claustrophobic even in the larger Gamov; I've given him some of your Serax stash, tried to be careful with the dose at first but it was like giving him TicTacs instead of benzos."

John stands up in his vat, then steps out of it, curling his toes on the cold ground. He grabs a towel hanging from a tent pole and curses; it feels as though his frostbitten toes are now more sensitive to the cold than before. He takes a seat in a folding chair to dry his toes, after which Al caps the IV on his arm. Next, the older climber helps John slip on a pair of oversized socks borrowed from Hakon—John's usual size would so tight that he'd pop his blisters. Next comes a pair of boots four sizes larger than his usual, borrowed from one of the Sherpas.

After watching John for a moment to make sure he's fine for a stroll, Al heads for the kitchen tent as John takes a left towards the medical one.

Valerie is stretching her neck just outside of it, basking in the sunlight.

"You should be resting," she chides gently, but her smile signals that she doesn't really expect John to comply. She'd hugged him long and hard when they reached Base Camp; despite their differences, they're all in this together, and John will never forget all she's done to help.

"Helicopter's here soon. James is on the flight," Valerie tells him, biting her lip.

John sighs. "He didn't have to come."

"He says that he needs to be here to oversee things."

"He's overseeing fuck all. You and Mince and Al have everything under control." John has a hunch that what James really wants to oversee is the media—they've already been contacted by several journalists on the radio who have heard the news about two climbers having survived a night up on Annapurna in a blizzard. _James must have tipped them off_ , John suspects at first, but then realises that their clients would not have wasted any time submitting evidence of their successful summit bids to the climbing press, and they would certainly have mentioned what was going on with the rescue.

Valerie lights a cigarette—John hadn't even known that she smokes—and steps away from the tent.

John hesitates at the door.

_What if he's doing worse? What should I say? What will Sherlock say? Is he even in his right mind? Is he grateful, or something else?_

John tries to tell himself that he had merely done what anyone would have done, but is it true? He has seen fights break out at Everest base camp over rope fixing, has seen theft and sexual harassment in the climbing community, has seen pettiness and a lust for fame and fortune prevail over just wanting to stand on mountaintops. Climbers like Sherlock— _real_ climbers, never mind the guy's selfishness and his obvious passive-aggressive death wish—are becoming rarer. John feels like a dinosaur half the time, but despite their differences and Sherlock's efforts at keeping him at bay, maybe the fact that he wasn't a client in the same sense as the others was what had intrigued John. Maybe that's why he had done what he'd done: in saving Sherlock, he was trying to save what he saw as a dying art of climbers having each other's back.

It's just that... he isn't that noble. He isn't that much or a practical idealist, is he? Maybe he'd wanted to save Sherlock because the idea of the mountains without him had been unbearable. Because he'd been the unusual, irritating, fascinating, and odd bright spot in this expedition. He had been everything that John's life isn't right now, and he'd been drawn to that like a moth to a flame. Climbing up in the blizzard had been his final act of defiance, inspired by a man he'd brought back from the edge of death.

Now, standing at the doorway of the medical tent, John again stands at the precipice of the unknown. And, he wants to walk in, as much as he suddenly fears what awaits there.  
  
  
  



	15. Gone

>   
>    
> 
> 
> _“It was titillating to brush up against the enigma of mortality, to steal a glimpse across its forbidden frontier. Climbing was a magnificient activity, I firmly believed, not in spite of the inherent perils, but precisely because of them.”_  
>  —Jon Krakauer  
>    
> 

  
Inside the medical tent, the light is deliberately kept dim due to the cerebral oedema causing quite severe sensitivity to it. To John's surprise, the Gamov isn't zipped up so it has deflated, merely covering most of Sherlock's torso as though it were just a heavy sleeping bag. Perhaps he has requested this so that he could talk to John.

Sherlock has an IV and a regular, medical oxygen mask on his face instead of the larger fabric ones used by climbers. He tries in vain to stifle a wheezy coughing fit. A pulse ox is clipped to his finger with a handwritten chart of vital signs on a table nearby. The reading is eighty-two percent; worryingly low, especially on supplementary oxygen.

_Al and Valerie have obviously done a good job._

Sherlock's eyes flutter open when he hears John's footsteps. They're bloodshot and tired, but quickly focus on John as recognition dawns.

"Hi," John says and feels pathetic because it's all he can come up with. He doesn't ask how Sherlock—who's no longer his patient—is feeling, because that isn't why he's here.

He expects some form of thank-you and feels pre-emptively mortified for putting a man as proud of Sherlock Holmes is such a position as to needing to utter such platitudes.

"I'm not good at this," Sherlock says and blinks hard as he tries to focus his eyes on John. He slips his hands out from the bag and rests them primly on where his thighs probably lie underneath the layers of plastic and down and wool he's been wrapped up in.

"Listen, you don't have to----" John starts. "I did what any team mate or climbing partner would have done.

"I don't have 'team mates', or 'climbing partners'," Sherlock interrupts him. "I've just had the _one_."

John stares, his tired and bewildered brain trying to interpret the words.

"No one has ever––" Sherlock trails out.

John leans closer because he's speaking so quietly and someone is banging the lunch bell and the oxygen is hissing.

Suddenly, Sherlock grabs his lapels in his bony fingers, pulls him closer and kisses him.

He tastes of sweat, ozone, the minty chapstick which is the current popular brand in Kathmandu, snow and something John cannot even name.

It's not a soft, fluttery, tentative first kiss but urgent and unsubtle; their chapped lips crush against each other, stubbles scrape against cold-raw skin.

After they draw apart, John's eyes have gone wide, and he's absolutely still.

Sherlock lets go of him, and John nearly staggers back. An odd sound registers in his ears, and it takes him a quiet, confounded minute to realise it's the helicopter.

"I––" the moment is broken by the coughing fit that hits him.

He has no idea what the rest of his sentence should have been.

And, Valerie chooses that moment to walk in. She takes in the sight of John's expression but chooses not to ask why he's so spooked. "Chopper's approaching. James will want to see you."

_Fuck James._

The moment is gone, leaving John with more questions than answers. He touches the fingertips of his good hand to his lips, as though there could be evidence there, an explanation of what had just happened.

Valerie gets to work setting up and pressurising the Gamov again for the flight, and soon Sherlock disappears from view inside the red miniature pressure chamber that looks like a moth's cocoon.

John walks out of the tent and doesn't even remember doing so.

He shakes his head as he makes his way to the landing site. _He's got cerebral oedema. He doesn't even know what he's talking about._ _He probably won't remember any of this._

John doesn't have that luxury. All he knows is that he should have kissed back, even if he doesn't know what it would have meant. _Does it matter? Does anything matter beyond knowing I should have, that I wanted to?_

He flinches when James claps a hand on his shoulder. Standing next to the mess tent deep in thought, John hadn't even noticed the helicopter had touched down.

James is wearing a crisp white dress shirt, a stainless new North Face thermal vest, and jeans. "Fucking _A_ , John! You have any idea how much business this means for us? I've got The Kathmandu Post and even the bloody New Yorker breathing down my neck, demanding interviews! Valerie let me talk to our patient on the radio, he says we can say he was a team member."

John snaps out of his reverie. " _What?!_ "

"Bloke says he doesn't care what we say. I know it wasn't part of the deal we made with him, but I am damned glad you chose to help him."

James doesn't get it. He really, really doesn't.

"He's half delirious, you can't expect to get consent––" John pinches the bridge of his nose, sniffs and squares his shoulders. "All this will do is bring in idiots with no qualifications who want to climb with us, assuming we'll drag their sorry arses off the mountain if things go to shit," he spits out venomously.

"That's what a guide is _for_ ," James tells him indignantly. "For people who wouldn't be able to do these things otherwise."

"No."

"What do you mean, 'no'?" James reaches out to steer him by his shoulders back towards the base camp, but John sidesteps him and swats his hand off the small of his back.

James is frowning. "This is _your_ moment, John! I hope you're prepared for a lot of press on this. You'll have to stay in Kathmandu a bit, be the face of the company."

"No. I won't."

"We can't waste this opportunity! We're in this together, John."

"We were _never_ in this together! I wanted to climb, you just wanted to profit from others doing so! That's why you were willing to make that deal with Sh––Holmes; he paid you to bend the rules; he _paid you to ignore basic human decency_! And, you did it without asking me, even though I was the one stuck mopping up the mess if he didn't come down alive! How do you think it would have been for the company if he'd died and we hadn't lifted a fucking finger to help because _he wasn't paying us to do so?!_ " John likes to think that the climbing community has enough collective decency left to condemn such a lack of solidarity.

"I thought we had a good thing going," James says, the slick businessman's confidence John has so grown to hate having evaporated from his tone. "Once," he adds.

"I thought so too, until I realised that it was just what I wanted to believe back then."

James had been the one to quit their relationship first. Now, it's time for John to put what's left of it to rest. "I'm walking away. I quit. You can milk this in the press all you want, but I won't be a part of it. And I doubt Holmes will keep any of the delirious promises you may have squeezed out of him, you _fucking prick!_ "

James glares daggers at him. "This is it, then? Just like that?"

"I should have asked you that after Paris. Put me on that transport."

"You know as well as I do that with a Gamov there's only room for two, and since you're not going to do what needs to be done to manage this in the press, I need to fly back."

John huffs, then storms off to the edge of Base Camp; James doesn't follow.

At the edge of where a river had once filled the valley, John stands alone and watches as a stretcher is carried from the medical tent into the helicopter. He watches, as it takes off in the crystal-clear air. A modicum of calm settles in; at least Sherlock should be safe, soon, in a hospital where he belongs.

It's a bone-achingly beautiful day, but today, when John looks up at the mountains around them, all he can see is death, who's always a climber's companion. _Maybe that's who Sherlock thought he was climbing with. Maybe that's who he saw_ , John thinks as he swipes off tears of anger, relief, and overwhelming exhaustion from his eyes, watching the helicopter disappear into the cloud cover.

John will stay for the remaining days of the expedition, but after that, he'll never come back to Annapurna.

 

 

**–––THREE WEEKS LATER–––**

**–––Khao Lak, Thailand–––**  
  


John curls his toes into the wet sand, watching the sun set into the Andaman sea. It's been a long time since he's seen the ocean apart from glimpses of it from plane windows.

Wrapping his arms around his knees, he doesn't mind the occasional wave lapping up so high that his bum gets wet; it's so hot and humid that he can hardly feel the difference.

Sand shifts under footsteps close by as Mike makes his way down the wooden staircase from the upper terrace, two whiskies in hand. "You still take yours neat, don't you?" he asks.

"I'll take it any way it comes. Beggars can't be choosers," he jokes.

It's not even all in jest: he is essentially broke and homeless. Three weeks after returning to Kathmandu, he had locked the door to his apartment behind him for the last time, took a cab to the airport, and used up a good chunk of his meagre savings to buy a ticket on the first international flight out. It turned out to be Phuket, Thailand. The name of the place had quickly rung a bell; it felt like serendipity that he knew someone in the area.

Mike Stamford is a British doctor and business executive, currently the CEO of a medical supply company's UK branch. The company had acquired the rights to a new anti-siphon shunt valve which has sold like hot cakes in Asia, allowing Mike to acquire a holiday house in Thailand and finance his wife's mountaineering career. John had met the guy eight years ago when working for a firm called Adventure Consultants for the Everest spring season; Mike's wife Sandra was attempting to summit then. Mike doesn't have a climber's bone in his body but had accompanied her to Base Camp. 'It's still a holiday, and I enjoy seeing her in her element,' Mike had explained. He and John had got along like a house on fire, their friendship lubricated by the fact that Mike wasn't really a client, that John wasn't responsible for his summit attempt. They'd kept in touch, grabbing a pint whenever the rare moment came when John flew to England.

Mike has been trying to invite him to his Khao Lak villa for years, now; thankfully he had happened to be there when John had called from the airport in Kathmandu.

They clink their glasses together just as the last rays of the orange-hued sun colours the waves. Mike takes a seat on a flat rock next to John. "There's mosquito repellent in the verandah, help yourself. Not much malaria here but better be safe than sorry."

John hums in acknowledgement. He hadn't even thought of malaria. After Mike had picked him up from the airport, he'd slept for twelve hours, lulled to slumber by the whirr of a ceiling fan and the large, soft guestroom bed. Usually, he isn't a man who longs for luxury, but right now it's just what the doctor ordered.

"So," Mike says. "Why now?"

John rolls his shoulders, still stiff from sleep. "I quit Summit Fever. I quit James a while ago but had kept working with him. Until now. Don't know what's next."

"What happened?"

John raises a sly brow. "Why do you assume something happened?"

Mike grins. "Well, it didn't seem like this was a very thoroughly planned thing, leaving Kathmandu. A phone call while you’re already on the way isn’t like you ordinarily. You're an organised guy. Wouldn't have trusted Sandra in your hands otherwise," he teases.

Mentioning her smarts less now, than it did when they had last seen each other. Three years after summiting Everest, she had been diagnosed with aggressive, advanced ovarian cancer. The losing battle took a year. John couldn't make it to the funeral, which he still regrets. His friends are few and far between outside the climbing community.

"Annapurna happened."

"You mean that thing a few years ago?" Mike knows about Mark Wick.

"No, I–– I went back. For work."

Mike doesn't hide his surprise. "How was _that_?"

John draws a deep breath and gives Mike a summary of their expedition. There's a lot he leaves out, and even if he hardly emphasises the more dramatic events, Mike still looks both horrified and impressed by the time John is finished.

"That's–– wow. Sounds like a movie. I can't believe you _spent the night_ up there!" He shakes his head.

"Movies always get everything wrong."

"Well, did the other climber survive? They flew him out, what then?"

John shrugs. The forefinger and middle finger of his left, dominant hand are bandaged; he had lost two thirds of both to frostbite. They had been the ones he'd injured and they're now smarting a bit, but not enough to warrant meds. "We returned to Kathmandu a week later. He'd discharged himself from hospital, so I know he survived."

"You haven't been in touch?"

"I don't have his contact information." He could have got Sherlock's number from his paperwork at the office, but he didn't want to go back there lest he have to speak with James. They've not seen each other since Base Camp. Mince, who John had seen once after their return to Kathmandu, had said that Holmes wasn't replying to emails and he'd checked out of his hotel the day he'd left the hospital. No one knew where he was.

John has no idea what he would even say to the man, even if he could get in touch. Everything that happened, the closeness he'd felt that night, what part of it—if any—had been real? HACE can make people behave in strange ways, and someone stricken with that and grateful enough to be rescued just might develop a smidgen of Nightingale Syndrome. How much of the attraction he’d felt to the man had been simply respect or curiosity? He’ll never get the chance to find out now.

' _Alone protects me.'_ And, alone is what Sherlock seems to want to be right now, so John would feel awkward intruding on that. What happened, happened. _It's over, even before it had properly begun._

"So, he must have been alright if he could leave like that. What is it that bothers you unless it's just James and quitting work?"

Suddenly, John doesn't feel like discussing it any further, because answering whatever questions Mike now has would involve talking some more about Sherlock, and right now that is painful.

_I barely know him, but I miss him._

_He's gone, and I miss him._

John swallows a third of his whisky. Not even the warmth that soon tingles on his tongue and his chest can erase the sudden cold that seeps into his bones. "I don't know. I don't know what to make of it all."

"Well, sounds like you've got time, now, to work that out."

John sighs. "Not really. I have to find work, I guess. And a place to live."

"Well, you could house-sit for me? I'm going to London in two weeks and won't be back until October. The place is yours as long as you'd like."

John's meagre savings would probably be enough to cover food for a while; Thailand is cheap. He realises he hasn't even received his pay check for Annapurna I yet. He should be able to access his Kathmandu bank account somehow, or Valerie could wire him the sum. _Blood money_.

"Have you still got your GMC registration number?" Mike asks. "There's plenty of locum shifts available at A&Es."

John taps his bandaged fingers against the glass. "I'm not sure if I could manage doing everything that A&E would require at the moment, not until these heal. Besides, I don't want to go back home. I know that much."

"You don't have to decide tonight," Mike laughs. "I meant it, though—that's an amazing thing you did, what you went through. You should type that up for some magazine, National Geographic maybe."

John hums non-committally.

"Can I refresh that for you?" Mike asks, nodding towards John's glass.

He gets a nod in reply, and John passes it to him.

Mike rises to his feet—it appears that his knee which has been operated on twice is giving him grief again. He starts for the stairs, then halts and turns back towards the waterline. "I'm going to Phuket tomorrow for some shopping. Want to tag along?"

John puts down his glass on the sand. "No, thanks. I'm just going to sit right here until I start to miss the mountains."

That takes just two days. So, he borrows Mike’s laptop and starts to type.  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The beach in Khao Lak is _endless_. [Here it is](http://jbaillier.tumblr.com/post/179691751290/summit-fever-chapter-14-gone-archive-of-our), photographed by yours truly.
> 
> Happy birthday, ShakespearelovedLadyMacbeth.


	16. Who We Are

 

**—— ONE YEAR LATER ——**  
  


There's an honest-to-God _queue_ outside the door of Waterstone's Piccadilly branch. John sneaks to the front door to steal another glance out the window from where he is supposed to be sitting and waiting for his interview before the signing.

Despite all the praise for his writing from prominent newspapers and online reviews, he still feels like he just got lucky. He had never written much before this apart from being in the editorial board of a school paper during sixth form. He has always liked the idea of sharing stories, but he never thought he had one worth sharing. Nothing anyone would pay for.

Then, Annapurna happened. And, by extension, Sherlock happened. And somehow, that made him sit down and start typing his story.

 _Their_ story, as everyone keeps insisting.

After a lot of encouragement from Mike who he had emailed the first draft, John plucked up the courage to send the book to a literary agent. He was very convinced that ' _A Doctor in The Death Zone – A Story of High-Altitude Survival_ ' was a book about mountain climbing, and maybe a bit about medicine up there. But, it seems that those things are not what has allowed his publisher to now print 'New York Times #1 Bestseller' on the cover of the fourth print.

It's Sherlock that has put the story on everyone's radar.

Book reviews and interviewers and readers keep trying to give it a name, to find a word to describe the way he and Sherlock had connected up on the mountain. John refused to choose such a word. He had written the book to try to make sense of it all, but sometimes it feels as though the whole process has left him with more questions than answers. He has struggled with himself over sharing certain things he had thought, over being honest about some things that happened, convinced that neither of them had been entirely themselves up there. It's a one-sided account, and he has no idea what Sherlock thinks of it, assuming he's even read it.

It seems to be the ambiguity of the whole thing that fascinates people, the way it is all left open. A close call with death is enough to make anyone cross barriers they otherwise wouldn't. When he realised his relationship with Sherlock was what everyone was focusing on, John had called the editor several times, practically begging to erase those parts, but she never relented. Every time John complained about them, she told him they were what made it so memorable, even calling it _'the heart of the story, a vital part of the emotional complexity of it'_ and told John that all good adventure stories need their characters to grow and change.

John isn't sure he has grown. He has changed, certainly, but to what?

He isn't sure how Sherlock and Annapurna had managed to change him. Only that they did. That expedition had put things in John's head which had bloomed into something meaningful. 

Last week, he'd been on TV—on a show called This Morning—and again, the conversation had soon turned to Sherlock.

"Have you heard from him?" the host, Holly Willoughby, had asked, and he'd hemmed and hawed. "What if we could try to get him on the phone?" she had suggested eagerly.

That had rattled John. "He could be anywhere, and it could be night time there," he hastily argued. "I don't know what he thinks of the book. If he hates it, then I'd rather not know. And I'm sorry if that's the case."

He'd wanted to say that the book was the romanticised ramblings of a bitter man who'd been single for a long time. He'd wanted to lie that his editor had insisted on adding a bit of romance. He'd wanted to say that stuff like that happens all the time for climbers, and those things are just the by-product of being out there, isolated and afraid. That it didn't mean anything.

But, he would have been lying. He would never have had the courage to put such things in the book if they weren't true. Some of them surprised him, pouring out of his fingers onto the pages.

A security guard swings by to inform John and Jenny Meyer, the journalist from Mountaineer Magazine, interviewing him that it's five minutes until show time. When the store opens, fans will be let in to compete for the best spots in front of the small podium set up in the stationary section. An assistant clips a tiny microphone onto John's lapel.

"They've moved some more shelves out of the way; there are about 180 people outside, so we'll be using the speakers, after all," Meyer explains to John.

"Christ."

He straightens his jacket; he had originally thought about a suit but settled on jeans and a North Face T-shirt underneath a linen jacket he'd had tailor-made in Thailand where such services are dirt-cheap. No point in looking like a yuppie if he's selling a book about climbing. At first, before the book kicked off, he'd thought about using it for some job interviews, but in the end, it had turned into his signature look for the PR tour.

In no time at all the stampede begins, and soon the interview is underway. Nearly everyone in the audience is holding a copy of the book, either brought from home or hastily snatched from a display.

Meyer starts off with some general questions about John's background (' _not much to know; working class from outer London, foster kid like my sister since our parents died'_ ), his prior literary works (' _none at all, really'_ ), his climbing (' _I've got more of the ten highest mountains on Earth under my belt that there are those I haven't climbed – God, that sounds like showing off, doesn't it?')._

Then come the usual questions about how long it took to write the book ( _'a couple of months; once I got started it just, well, rolled out'_ ), how people have reacted to it (' _James was surprisingly okay with it because he thinks all press is good press; Valerie probably hates me but then again, that's hardly new, and Mince thinks I made him sound like some mountain playboy, and he loves it')_.

In his email reply to Meyer about interview details, John had mentioned being a bit tired of all the Sherlock-related questions because there was nothing new he could say that wasn't in the book. No, they haven't seen each other since the incident; he doesn't know where the man is. No, he doesn't want to discuss whether he cares to know that or not.

In the end, he and Jenny had agreed on a maximum of two questions regarding Sherlock. John is hoping there won't even be that many.

"So, we've talked about how the other members of the Summit Fever staff reacted. But, I'm sure the question that's on everyone's mind is how Sherlock Holmes reacted. Did you see each other after he was evacuated from Base Camp?" Jenny asks with an expectant smile.

"No. Once I got back to Kathmandu and got everything sorted with the clients—returning rental gear, having a final dinner, getting some treatment for my fingers, that sort of thing—I did contact the hospital, but they told me that Holmes had discharged himself after three days. They were willing to tell me as much that, once back in lower altitude in Kathmandu—Annapurna base camp is quite high so not even a Gamov helps that much up there—his symptoms had resolved quickly. I didn't know where he was staying in Kathmandu or whether he'd left the country, and there wasn't much more to say, was there?"

The audience's silence is oppressive.

It's strange to call Sherlock by his last name in public because that's how John refers to the other clients. But, if he used the man's first name, it would feel as though there's more going on between them than there ever was.

"I'd done my part," John excuses, aware that he sounds as though he's pleading the audience to believe him. "He survived. I was happy about that."

He hadn't felt like he'd done his part, not at all, once he was back in Kathmandu, but he had no idea what he would have said to Sherlock if they saw each other again. In Thailand, John had tried to tell himself that it was a relief if they never spoke again. 

But, the idea of never seeing him again had left John restless and short-tempered. The writing helped, but not even putting it all on paper could evict Sherlock Holmes from his head.

Mike had kindly let him stay in the beach house much longer than just a few initially planned months. John looked after the place, explored the surrounding areas, and occasionally sent Mike snippets of new chapters. He settled his finances with James, which gave him a meagre amount of funds to feed and clothe himself for the year before the book came out.

Slowly, he was willing to admit to himself how drained and in limbo he had felt for a long time, how close to being burnt out he had been.

That revelation helped, made him feel complete. Free. As though he'd paid a debt. And, it had cemented his decision that he couldn't continue on the road he'd been on, working for Summit Fever. Working for other people.

 _Never again._ If and when he climbs again, he does it just for himself.

"Has Holmes reacted to the book in any way? He's been pretty quiet in the press," Meyer points out.

"Pretty quiet—as in not a peep, seeing as he seems to have disappeared off the face of the Earth."

The audience chuckles a bit, but there's half a truth in John's statement. He often worries about Sherlock's complete absence from public life. Before, he'd been a favourite of the mountaineering press; the bad boy, the renegade, the male model who sprinted up mountains. Thanks to James, all the Himalayan websites and climbing magazines had reported on the Annapurna incident, and John had given quite a few interviews especially after he'd gotten his book deal. Most of those journalists said that they'd tried to contact Sherlock, but nobody could find him.

Maybe he'd come back to London. Or, he could be anywhere.

 _What if something's happened to him?_ One thing John had left out of the book were his worries about Sherlock's mental health; since those things had occurred to him first and foremost as a physician, he considered them private.

John shifts in his chair, plasters on a smile he's had plenty of practice to produce. "I bet he's out there somewhere, planning some amazing climb that's going to blow all our minds and make us forget about Annapurna. He did summit, by the way—his camera was in his pack, which was brought down with him. Mince found it after Holmes had been flown to Kathmandu. We delivered copies of the photos he'd taken with a timer and a tripod to all the record-keepers, and you can find them on most of those websites."

John's own summit photo is in the book, next to a shot of his bandaged hand just after the surgery where two of his fingers were amputated.

Next, they go to audience questions. A few nice ones address training for a first Himalayan climb and picking an expedition service provider. Then, Meyer asks if readers have any particular parts they would like to ask about in the book.

A hand shoots up in the back of the audience. John can't see the person it belongs to since they're so far away. A microphone is passed to the back so that everyone can hear what the question is.

"I would like to address a mistake," a rich baritone says.

Before John even makes a conscious identification of the voice his head, his heart has leapt into pounding against his ribcage.

A throat is cleared before the honey-glazed, absolutely calm voice continues, amplified by the microphone. "May I direct your attention to this particular bit late in the book—bear with me, it is rather long— _'He was beautiful. Untouchable. I remembered watching him on Annapurna's ice walls like I would survey a painting in a museum; certain of its perfection but unable to define what had drawn me to that particular sight. What would it have felt like, kissing him without the excuse of cerebral oedema making him act out of character or my own desperation and relief making me more reckless than usual? I wanted a threesome with him, and the mountains, cheating on the rest of humanity just like Valerie had accused me of. He had made me want to embrace my true nature, to stop resisting reaching out for what I wanted. I had no way of knowing what Sherlock Holmes might have wanted from me, now that we were no longer bound together by summit fever or a desire to survive the night, and I was too afraid to seek him out and ask. The moment of opportunity was gone.'_

"What's the mistake?" the interviewer asks eagerly.

John stands up, and now he can just about make out a blackish mop of curls somewhere in the back.

"The assumption of the opportunity having passed is incorrect," Sherlock says. "In fact, I would be so bold as to suggest that it is _right here_."

The audience has fallen silent. They must have realised what is going on, who the person is addressing the author.

John should be mortified. Scared. Worried. Yet, something about Sherlock's tone, his calmness, the lack of biting sarcasm puts him at ease—but only until he realises a reply is being expected, and panic sets in.

"That bit is just––you know how people want a bit of drama," John stammers, "I'm sorry if it isn't what you would have wanted them to read about you."

_A frostbitten ex-guide lusting after a client. Fucking classy, John._

He suddenly remembers that the crowd is still there, waiting. "Well, ladies and gentlemen, it seems I can't help but introduce Sherlock Holmes."

There's a moment of silence, then thunderous applause. That leads to more expectant silence.

"Can I––can I have a word? In private," John says into the microphone, grimacing for having to do this publically.

Sherlock, still holding on to his own microphone, lifts up a copy of John's book. "I was hoping to get an autograph. I'll join the queue."

Jenny Meyer stands up. "We're actually scheduled to start the meet-and-greet part right now, so if you'd like to all head towards where we've set up the queueing area?"

John tries to follow the dark-haired figure who has now rescinded the microphone, but he soon loses sight of Sherlock as the crowd starts to move.

  
-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-

None of the people in the queue before Sherlock even register on John's radar—he's too nervous, too distracted, too tempted to steal constant glances down the line and to count how many times he still needs to scribble his name before seeing him.

Finally, they stand face to face. Sherlock is wearing a blue-grey designer T-shirt underneath an obviously bespoke grey corduroy jacket. His hair is slightly longer than it used to be and he's as clean-shaven as the day John had first met him. He's thin, but not gaunt. He looks…good. Perfect. _Gorgeous._

Sherlock passes him his copy of the book. John leafs through it; there are notes written in the margins and plenty of dog-eared pages.

"No one has ever described me like that." There is wonder and surprise in Sherlock's voice.

"So you're not here to tell me how much you hate it?" John asks, scribbling his signature.

"You look––good," John tells him. "Not much frostbite, then?"

"Not much." Sherlock touches a fingertip to lift his hair to reveal he is missing most of his right earlobe. "This was the only casualty. It appears that someone managed to help me stay warm enough. What about you? Any missing bits besides the two fingers you mentioned in the book?"

"I promise you everything else is intact and functional." John's face reddens when he realises what he's just let out of his mouth.

There's a short, urgent silence and the queue behind Sherlock starts to get restless; only an hour has been reserved for the book signing.

Since his back is towards it, Sherlock doesn't seem to notice this change in the crowd, but John is feeling the pressure.

"It seems you have a bestseller in your hands, then." Sherlock says, receiving his book back. "Any plans of a sequel?"

"I wouldn't know what to write about."

"Perhaps you're just missing your Muse. Maybe…you should climb with him some more."

John blinks. The crowd closest to them has gone absolutely quiet; they must have sensed the expectant heaviness of the moment. Murmurs begin; the characters of the book all these people are infatuated with have just leapt off the page and started continuing the plot.

"Sherlock–––" John starts.

_Please don't leave._

_I would have danced with you._

"You showed me there was more to me than meets the eye," John says because he isn't brave enough to say those other things. "More than a guide."

"Maybe you needed a near-death experience to believe it," Sherlock suggests. He is looking down at the book in his hands.

"A _near-death experience_ just might be the perfect description of you."

"I like to think the mountain is more to blame but then again, we are both big enough idiots to want to summit it."

"What should I––" John trails out. _Do something. Say something. Don't let him leave._

Sherlock is worrying his lower lip, and he looks as though he's holding his breath while waiting for John's reaction.

 _Is this really happening?_ John wonders. _He didn't hate the book._ _I described that I was attracted to him, and he didn't hate it. He's here._

"I need to finish this signing," he tells Sherlock quietly. "Will you wait? _Please?_ " Those thirty minutes will be torture because he will be worried Sherlock will get bored or regretful and leave.

"Of course."

John smiles, and it's not the fake smile he'd plastered on during the interview but a smile that's been missing since the day he stood on the summit of Annapurna I.  
  


-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-

 

"It wasn't easy to read how you described me and to read about the conversations you had with others about me. You turned out to be more perceptive than I gave you credit for," Sherlock says and sips his mineral water.

"I'm sorry. I did think about letting you veto the book, but if I'd done that, I would have second-guessed myself every time I wrote about you. I considered saying that it was fiction, that it was a novel, but then I'd have had to spend all my time answering questions about which bits were real and which were not."

"No apologies necessary, John. Your stubbornness in believing that my life had intrinsic value made me reconsider certain things, and I needed some time to process that."

John nods. "I had some stuff to think about, too, after Annapurna."

"I didn't expect anyone to pay attention to me out there—after all, that's the deal I made with James Sholto that I would use the infrastructure but not the guiding services. I didn't expect _you_. I was surprised at how much I enjoyed being out there with you, fixing the ropes. I liked having someone to talk to, someone I could approach. I just wasn't very good at it. Never have been."

"If we can't be ourselves out there, then where?"

"I have never found it possible to be that, not even when I'm among other climbers. That night up near the summit was… I don't remember that much about it, but I remember being comfortable around you, trusting you in a way that surprised me. Could have just been the HACE, of course," he jokes, deadpan.

John chuckles and sips his beer.

"I have to say the only thing I found insulting about the book was the way in which you dismissed _everything_ that happened near the summit and after as just a by-product of our survival instincts kicking in. You kept vacillating between suspecting I was as attracted to you as you were to me, doubting whether my actions were intended to signal anything real. The parts I do remember… I meant it, John. I meant all of it, and it's not just because you helped me survive the night. You can't convince me that I didn't see the real you on that climb. You need to believe I wasn't as confused as you think I was about the things that really matter. I wanted to kiss you before we ever left for the summit, but if you hadn't followed me into the storm, I'd never have gone for it."

This gives John pause. He had convinced himself that neither of them had really been their real selves up there. Now, Sherlock is claiming, with absolute conviction in his eyes, that they had never been _more_ themselves?

"Long ago, I convinced myself that the solitary experience of climbing was the best I could do in life," Sherlock explains, slipping his hands below the table onto his lap. John had noticed his fidgeting with the napkin, and that's what he's probably trying to hide: that he's nervous. That he doesn't know how John will react, which is ridiculous because John has splayed his feelings wide open in the book for all to see.

"I thought that I shouldn't impose responsibility for my safety or survival on anyone else, because I assumed nobody saw value in that. Then you barged in, ' _hung over on the responsibility—and perhaps a bit traumatised by it, too—of your past experiences on Annapurna'_."

John instantly recognises that Sherlock is quoting chapter eight. _God, he's memorised the damned thing, hasn't he?_

"I do respect the knowledge and experience of other climbers, but I dismissed such things when they contradicted what I believed about myself.What you wrote about Al North's opinion of me...." Sherlock averts his gaze momentarily before clearing his throat and composing himself. "In saving my life, you seemed to confer a value on it I did not know how to spend. Until I worked that out, until I accepted that value, I couldn't bring myself to climb again because it seemed obvious that I could not continue doing it the way I used to. You were trying to tell me that I was headed for the statistics; before Annapurna, a part of me knew and didn't care, and another part of me just shut it out. Shut it all out. You called me out on the logical flaws in my beliefs."

John nods. Waits.

Sherlock does not continue. He looks a little embarrassed, now, as though he regrets saying too much.

"I get it, I think," John says quietly. "You thought you were only gambling with yourself if you told other people to leave well enough alone. But, it doesn't work that way out there. On Everest, it's now every man for himself, and people are dying because of it. The day we stop helping each other, the moment we stop putting human life above everything else, is the day we should all stop climbing."

John wonders if this makes it sound as though he was just doing his professional duty, that he would have done what he did for anyone. But, it's not true. A part of it was about pride, a part of it was stubbornness, a part of it a need to atone for Mark Wick, but the most significant part was simple. He could not accept the possibility of Sherlock dying up there, and he could accept even less the possibility of Sherlock dying up there _alone_. He'd acted on instinct, following his heart rather than his head and that's why even Al had tried to warn him off.

What's done is done, and they're both here. Climbing is about living in the now, always has been, and that's what John had forgotten. Working as a guide made it all about planning and debriefings and logistics and managing other people's expectations, and John hadn't realised how tired he was of it.

He had saved Sherlock because he didn't want to face a world without him.

"I did really want to get my copy signed," Sherlock teases awkwardly. "Who knows when the next opportunity will be to meet the author?"

"I wanted to see you after I got back to Kathmandu," John tells him. "But you'd discharged yourself. Every day, I thought of seeking you out, but I didn't know what to say to you."

"You've had a year to think about it." Sherlock picks up a piece of baguette from the bread basket, rips off a piece and puts it on his plate. "Did you work out what you would have said?" He glances at John before frowning at the piece of bread again. "Strange, isn't it, how much easier it was that night to talk. To be–––"

"––together," John suggests quietly. "I think I wouldn't have said anything, just returned that kiss. Which I failed to do at Base Camp. You caught me by surprise. Shitty excuse, I know, but that's what happened."

Sherlock draws in a breath. "Did you mean those things you put in the book? Did you exaggerate anything? I'm asking because, during the expedition, you didn't lead me to believe you could be…interested, like that."

John reaches out for his left hand, covers it with his own. "I think I meant it precisely as much as you meant with that kiss."

Sherlock looks at their joined hands, then meets John's gaze. His apprehension seems to be shifting away, giving room to his usual confidence. John thinks he could get drunk on just the sight of him.

"Good, that's––good, then," Sherlock suggests. He turns his hand underneath John's palm, splays his fingers against John's. His gaze focuses on the two shorter fingers. "I'm sorry," he says.

John smiles, and there is no regret, no bitterness in his next words: "My choice. My payment for survival." He slides his fingers between Sherlock's.

When the waiter brings their entrees, they don't withdraw their hands.

John doesn't ever want to let go.

"I am in talks again of finally obtaining a set of permits to climb in Bhutan, maybe even do that documentary I was negotiating a year ago if Discovery Channel will still have me. And, maybe I could convince the author of that bestseller book to pioneer some routes with me," Sherlock suggests.

"Good thinking. But, who knows what adventures the main characters of that book could be having in the future; maybe the author will never want to write a book again."

"Or maybe he'll want to write _several_. Maybe they'll write the next story together."

John finally, reluctantly removes his hand from holding Sherlock's and picks up his fork.

Sherlock looks thoughtful. "We could talk to Discovery about a companion book to the documentary."

John raises his glass to a toast. "I have the feeling this should be champagne."

"Once we get to your hotel room, there will be plenty of that."   
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two chapters remain, detailing where our leading men (quite literally, when it comes to climbing) go from here. Those chapters were originally oneshots drafted by 7PercentSolution, but upon seeing them I realised that they would provide the perfect closure for this adventure.


	17. Finding Purchase

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **This chapter was originally drafted by 7PercentSolution and expanded and edited by J. Baillier.**

 

>   
>  _"What if I were smiling and running into your arms? Would you see then what I see now?"_ _  
> _ —Jon Krakauer

  
  
"Impressive", Sherlock comments the sight the greets him after liberating John from the constriction of pants. They're standing beside the double-bed in John's hotel room—his publisher clearly isn't a skinflint when it comes to PR tour accommodation. "Though I expected nothing less."

He meets with no resistance when he pushes John onto the bed and crawls on top of him.

"So, there were expectations?" John asks smugly, placing his palm on the back of Sherlock's head to pull him in for a kiss.

"If that is your way of asking whether I've thought of your cock during my year-long absence, the answer is a resounding yes."

John _giggles_. Sherlock has never quite heard anything like it. He certainly never uttered such an unreserved, unadulterated sound on the expedition.

This is a different John to the one he'd got to know on Annapurna. It's as though a heavy burden has been lifted from John's shoulders, and he no longer carries the barely concealed, frustrated rage that had made him so moody and prone to conflict.

This will be a very different night to the one they spent huddled together in that snow cave, and not only because this time, Sherlock will remember everything.

After John stops holding his head in place, Sherlock presses his lips to the side of his neck, eliciting a groan. Then, he readjusts his weight so that he's flat against John, which allows his to lifts his hips slightly and slide a hand between them to wrap it around both their cocks. He places his left palm next to John's shoulder on the mattress, buries his face in John's hair and makes an experimental thrust.

John groans appreciatively, and Sherlock sucks his earlobe into his mouth. He doesn't give a whit that John's got two, and he's lost one; the plastic surgeon he'd seen in Zurich had done an excellent job in reshaping the one that had gone necrotic.

There have been no complaints from John about his physique in general tonight. He knows he's not gained back all the weight lost on Annapurna, and he's lost some muscle mass because he's not been climbing, but even though he's not good at interpreting such things, John's _'Christ fuck, Sherlock_ ' upon seeing him naked had felt like high praise. Especially since that assessment was preceded by an eager attempt to remove both their clothing as fast as possible.

John grabs a handful of his arse and grinds their hips together even harder. Sherlock replies in kind, removes his hand, and they find a rhythm together that provides just the right amount of friction.

"Fuck, I––this isn't going to last long if you keep that up."

Sherlock stalls his movements, rests his palms on both sides of John's head and pushes his torso up. "But you don't want me to stop," he points out, letting a lop-sided grin spread on his features.

A thin film of sweat which Sherlock wants to lick off has spread on John's chest along with a rosy flush of arousal.

John slides a hand to his side and tips him to lie on his side, then spits on his hand and shoves it between them. His grip is firm and bordering on too intense but not crossing over to unpleasant. Sherlock closes his eyes and sighs, his breathing picking up as the pressure begins to gather, the throbbing warmth increasing. John smears kisses on his collarbone, grimacing and gasping as he nears his own climax.

Minutes later, they are lying next to each other in a tangle of limbs, sweaty hair, spent cocks, and tangled and stained sheets.

Sherlock clears his throat—his voice has gone hoarse—and slaps John gently on his arm to get his attention. "How's that for a near-death experience?"

 

-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-  
  


  
The journalist from GQ leans forward to push his recorder a little closer.  He’s also taking notes on a pad. When Sherlock asks him why both, Jason McAllister laughs and says: "Belt and braces. Don’t want to be caught out if the equipment fails."

John, sitting off to the side in an armchair, chuckles. "Yeah, I can relate to that. The difference is that when our equipment fails, it’s a matter of life and death."

That makes the journalist look up at him. "Um, yeah, I guess being here in London must be pretty tame to you two."

That comment makes both men smile. Sherlock's can't resist stealing a conspiratorial glance at John but keeps it very brief. He can’t help but think that if the journalist knew everything about them, this might become a rather different article. Tame? It doesn’t even begin to describe how their relationship has caught fire over the past two weeks.

It's all been startlingly quick—the tentative attraction they'd felt at Annapurna Base Camp had been sidelined by the horrors of the descent, but now that they have met up again, it's been a shock for Sherlock to realise that this man who had saved his life actually _loved_ him _._

He shifts in his seat, gathers his posture into something more business-like. Everything is still… new, and they're here to talk about John's book and climbing, nothing more. He doesn't want to touch upon their relationship, because he doesn't want to say the wrong thing. He's still learning to be in it, as is John, but at least he has the advantage of prior experience of such entanglements.

As if he can sense some undercurrent going on, Jason McAllister gives a self-conscious laugh, clears his throat and begins the interview proper: "I want to thank you, Mister Holmes, for agreeing to meet me. As I am sure John Watson has told you, I interviewed him ten days ago, but now that you are on the scene, I’d like to expand the article to cover both of you."

Sherlock nods. "I understand."

They're in Condé Nast International’s London office, in a small conference room. A tea tray sits in the corner to which John has already helped himself. Sherlock's doesn't want the distraction of nursing a drink. He tries to quell his nerves, but he would rather be facing a tough traverse than this ordeal. Even before Annapurna and John’s book, he’d had been unwilling to tolerate press enquiries into anything but his climbing. This is his first contact with the press since his return to the public eye, and he had agreed to this interview as a way to ease himself back into it and also to help with the book. It is, after all, a book that pretends to be about climbing but, according to the reviews, is more of a love letter from John to both mountains and another man. Sherlock finds it both baffling and slightly annoying that so many readers and journalists have latched onto the depiction of their not-even-a-relationship during the expedition as opposed to the factual and logical explanations of mountaineering John had provided in the book.

Since Sherlock's rather sensational re-appearance at the signing, the demand for interviews has sky-rocketed, along with sales of John’s book.  Lucky for him, the man asking the questions is not an expert, which should give him a modicum of protection. John had assured him McAllister had acted very professionally when conducting the earlier interview, focusing on John's climbing career and his disapproval of the direction high-altitude mountaineering is heading.

Sherlock knows to expect some potentially hostile questioning of just what happened on Annapurna from his point-of-view, and why it has taken him a year to resurface. This interview is an acclimatisation exercise, and he does not want to make a mess of it. He also worries about questions that might pry into their relationship, which he does not want to jeopardise at such an early stage.

Yesterday he'd seen someone reading a copy of the Australian edition of John's book on the Tube. The back cover carried a slogan: _'One man's love letter to the mountains—and another man_ '. John had seemed mortified at his discovery, and Sherlock could not understand why.

"Did you not mean the things you put in the text? The things about me?"

John had wrung his hands, looking sheepish. "Yeah, I did mean them, but––"

"Then own it." And John had, stepping closer to kiss him.

Sherlock has promised to write an epilogue for the next edition, though he has no idea what to say. He's not a writer and opening a door into his life and his head for the world is not something he feels comfortable about. But, John has made the decision for him by writing the book, and as Sherlock had quite enjoyed many of John's descriptions of him in it, he should make good on his promise to pay back for such an injection of positivity into his reputation in the climbing community.

The journalist gives him one of those irritating sorts of smiles—an expression he probably thinks is reassuring, but for Sherlock it just makes him wonder what he finds worth smiling about. Then, before he can decipher that, the journalist starts talking again.

"Extreme sports like mountaineering have an appeal to our readership, which is lucky for me because I get to interview some pretty exciting figures in the current sporting world. How does it feel to be counted as one of the elites in your field?"

Sherlock blurts out, "I'm not, at least not by all standards. I've only done seven eight-thousanders; John's climbed plenty more of them than I have. Many other climbers have managed all _fourteen_ of the eight-thousand-metre-tall mountains."

"Many?" McAllister looks surprised.

John steps in before Sherlock can decide how to respond. "That's still only forty verified climbers who have managed all fourteen summits."

Sherlock recovers his train of thought. "Nineteen of those have done it without oxygen. There are also many climbers who have pioneered more routes than me. Until there's a route named after you, you're only standing on the shoulders of the real giants."

"Modest, eh? So, why do you do climb alone and why without oxygen?"

Sherlock draws a deep breath and then turns to his left to catch John's eye; he's shaking his head, so Sherlock resists the temptation to call the man an idiot. What he does say is: "If I had a pound for every journalist who has asked me that question, I wouldn't have to bother with negotiating sponsorship."

He can see from the corner of his visual field that John winces.

Sinking back into the sofa, Sherlock knows that if he was on his own, this is when he would trot out his usual complaint that if only the reporter could have bothered to do some proper research, he would have found the answer to that question from previous interviews with much more prestigious climbing media. The answer he'd given to _The Alpinist_ in his very first interview is probably still valid; he’d explained that when someone relies on the help of a team and assistance in breathing to reach a summit, it’s like cheating.

He really doesn’t want to annoy John by describing the way he climbs in such terms, so he tries to find something more suited to the occasion.

Finally, he comes up with: "The short answer is: _because I can_. But, that doesn't begin to explain it, so don't quote that. A more precise answer would be more complicated." He sighs and rolls his eyes, to avoid looking anywhere but at the journalist. "I'm sorry; it probably doesn't provide the sort of sound bite you are probably looking for—the kind of quote beloved by sub-editors who will put it in an inset box somewhere in your article for those readers who can't be bothered to read the whole thing." This last is in a tone that implies he is actually anything _but_ sorry.

With his peripheral vision, he can see that John is tilting his head and giving him that a-bit-not-good look again. Sherlock realises he needs to throttle back on the sarcasm. "Reality is also a bit messier than what you can present as some neat, inspirational quote."

Jason makes a note on the pad. "I’ll take complicated as an explanation, just _why_?"

"Alone is easier. I could be glib and just say that with the possible exception of John Watson I have never found a suitable climbing companion. I want to summit on my own; there is a purity, a solitude that appeals to me. For me, the process of climbing is…"

Sherlock runs out of words for a moment. After a pause, he mumbles, "Sorry, communication has never been my forte."

John steps in. "You’ve never done any climbing, have you, Jason?"

Sherlock feels a twinge of embarrassment; he can never remember people’s names. They all blur after a while. Judging by what Sherlock has witnessed at Base Camp and during these past weeks in London, John’s people skills are formidable, perhaps honed by dealing with so many idiots on his climbing expeditions. An interview must seem simple after the demands of guiding a climb. His respect for John climbs yet another notch. _How is it even possible that this man wants to spend time and share a bed with me?_

The journalist is shaking his head. "No. Feet firmly on the ground. I will admit to reading tons of books about it, which is why I jumped at the chance of interviewing John. Then there are the films and documentaries: Everest, Touching the Void, Meru, 127 Hours, Vertical Limit— you name it. All from the comfort of my armchair, like a lot of our readers. Which is why I’m asking the question that all of them want to ask: why make it even harder by doing it alone and without oxygen? I mean, like, what’s the death wish there?"

John shakes his head. "Not a death wish; if you think that, then you don’t understand climbers; most of us are methodical risk mitigators. Those films you’ve been watching? They’re entertainment; they like to dramatise things, and the most reckless climbers don't tend to live long. The reality is a lot more footslogging and painstakingly boring than Hollywood would like. Even documentaries tend to edit out the boring bits."

Sherlock has used the moment to gather his thoughts and then continues, "Let me put it this way: when I am climbing, my mind empties of everything non-essential. The whole universe becomes rock, ice, rope and _me_ , distilled into the shape of a hand, a foot, a breath. The whole process means that I am more present, more _myself_ than at any other time in my life. It’s like the process of climbing is defining me anew every second."

He leans forward, trying to put into his own words some of what John had just said. "Of course, it’s a question of planning, training, plotting a route, and all that. Any major summit attempt takes weeks if not months of preparation, physical and mental and logistical. All of that converges into summit day. Once I get climbing, everything else drops away. All that preparation has to be applied to the conditions, and adaptations have to be made every single moment. A summit climb is the most intensive use of my brain and my body that I am capable of making. There is nothing like it; it strips away _everything_ else. It is elemental, the essence of existence, a time of total focus. There is no room for anything other than the immediacy of the now."

The journalist is smiling, making Sherlock hope that his attempt at eloquence will make it into print.

He continues his answer: "So, a decision about no oxygen is easy; I see it as something that complicates things, just another logistical issue to clutter things up. Alpine-style climbing is light, fast; my body can take it, so why wouldn't I prefer it to a slower approach and dragging up equipment that could malfunction? The longer one spends in the Death Zone, the more things can go wrong. So, my goal is to move fast, to get up and down within a twenty-four to thirty hour period."

The journalist dutifully scribbles down a note and then looks up again. "So, what about the other things that everyone talks about when mountaineering comes up—you know, the teamwork in the face of adversity, the camaraderie, the brotherhood of climbing?"

Sherlock does not bother to stifle a snort. "If there is such a thing as a mountaineer _brotherhood_ , my membership application has clearly been rejected. For me, other people just complicate things; I would rather trust myself. It means I am in total control of the situation, and not having to argue or discuss everything with other people."

"Climbing alone also means that you're further away from help than someone climbing with a partner or in a team."

"Obviously." He doesn't elaborate, hoping that he won't have to start arguing about the inherent risk of this arrangement yet again. He's had that argument plenty enough times with other climbers.

"So, what went wrong on Annapurna?"

 _Finally._ Sherlock would be relieved if this expected question wasn't the one he has been dreading. He closes his eyes and barely stifles a sudden, involuntary shudder. It had taken months before he could deal with the shame and embarrassment of his failure on the descent. He’d never lost it like that before. Accidents, equipment failure, bad weather—he’d had his fair share of those problems. But, he’d never suffered significant altitude sickness before.

He’s hidden from the press since leaving the hospital in Kathmandu, trying to understand the significance and cause of his failure. Maybe he wasn't as thoroughly acclimatised as he thought. Maybe he was dehydrated. Maybe it was a combination of both plus rotten luck; after all, even the fittest climber could get stricken with HAPE or HACE in the Death Zone. He may not have done anything wrong, but that's an even more frightening thought than finding some clear mistake he could pin the whole thing on.

He couldn't bring himself to climb until he felt he understood better what had gone wrong, and there was another question which plagued him: what had been so damned _different_ about the Annapurna expedition as opposed to his other projects? Why was he so _affected_ by the whole ordeal? That answer had been offered to him on a gold plate in the form of John's book.

As for what went wrong in the first place, he’s recently come up with some sort of an answer, but it isn’t an easy one to admit.

"Short answer: I don't know."

"Why not? John's book explained that you developed severe altitude sickness. Isn't that an explanation why you couldn't descend on your own?"

"That is a consequence, not an explanation. I can tell you what I remember. My route was perfect for the conditions on the day of the summit attempt. The line up the wide gully between the British and Japanese pillars was first identified by the French mountaineer, Piere Béghin, back in 1992. He would have made it to the top if the weather had been kinder when he tried it. But, he had to abandon the attempt, and he was on the way back down on an abseil when equipment failure ripped his anchor out, and he fell to his death."

The journalist’s eyes widen a bit. "So, you took _that_ route. Wasn’t that asking for trouble if many other climbers brave enough to attempt Annapurna had chickened out before?"

"The fact that I summited proves that it was a perfectly feasible plan. The photos have been verified."

"So I’ve read. What is it like, being on the summit of one of these mountains? And alone… is it different being alone?"

Sherlock breathes a sigh of relief.  The journalist has returned to the general, rather than the specific. He won’t be let off this easily by the specialist mountaineering media, but for now, he is grateful. "It's an odd mix of emotions for me. First and foremost is relief at having made it. Then, provided the weather cooperates, it is the first moment I get to switch my perspective from the extreme close-up focus of looking at my hands, feet, rope and rock.  It's a bit like spending a whole day looking at something through a microscope and then suddenly stepping back and seeing the entire landscape spreading around you. Being able to look out, away from the mountain is hugely exhilarating. It is also a moment of perspective in another way: I am insignificant in the great scheme of what is there, and what has been there for hundreds of thousands of years, if not millennia. Whenever I have shared the moment of summiting with other people, that company has been chosen by me; I don't know what it would be like to share the experience with someone I––" he trails out, drums his fingertips nervously on his knee. "At any rate, the moment is unique. Everything else just disappears from my mind. But, it doesn't last."

That seems to surprise the journalist, who stops writing notes and looks up. "Why not?"

"Because it’s only half the journey. A lot of climbers die on the descent because they lose focus. The summit is only a brief moment of respite before the challenge resumes."

Jason purses his lips and then nods as if to himself. "So, what went wrong on the descent from Annapurna? Why didn't you and John just climb down?"

 _Damn._ Back to the specific. John's book had filled some gaps in his memory, but not all; a part of that climb will forever remain shrouded in mystery for him. Still, he's had a whole year to ruminate on this, so it's now or never. "There are two answers to that. First and foremost, the weather changed." He wants to shrug it off now, but as soon as he'd reached the summit, he'd realised from the dark clouds already circling Machapuchare that there was absolutely no way that the weather would hold for the descent. 

"I had planned on going back down the same way I'd come up, but I realised once I could see to the northeast that the wind would change, and my descent line would become a funnel for storm winds and avalanches from high on the face. So, I had to re-think everything and consider using the same line that the others had taken, with the fixed ropes. It meant losing the chance to beat the speed record, and I was upset by that, kept wondering if there was any way I could manage to take a different route. But, it's very hard to think straight when you're in the Death Zone. And, I had not realised that while I was up on the summit trying to decide how to get down, I was already in serious trouble. Perhaps I took too long to decide; it's during my stay on the summit when my recollections begin to get hazy."

All he can remember are fragments, images, fractured conversation.

 _John._ Most of his memories are about John.

He looks over at the man himself and nods. "I'll have to defer to you for any sort of cohesive story."

John nods, and Jason shifts in his seat to face him. "When I found Sherlock at two hundred and fifty meters below the summit, at first I thought that he was just being affected by hypoxia. But, then I saw signs that he was suffering from that _and_ high-altitude cerebral oedema, HACE for short. That's when the atmospheric pressure in the Death Zone makes the climber's brain swell. It can cause massive headaches, confusion and disorientation, and can kill fast. He told me that he had seen another person on the summit, when I know there couldn't have been anyone, so he'd been hallucinating, too, but that's not necessarily––"

Sherlock grits his teeth and cuts in; "Plenty of climbers have reported hallucinations due to altitude, hypoxia, and what-have-you. It's not indicative of mental problems or even altitude sickness."

He prays for Jason not to inquire about the details of those hallucinations. Sherlock can't recall them, and John hadn't specified if and what they had discussed regarding them, but Sherlock can make a good guess who he'd seen. He had nearly quit climbing after the death of his father, but the leader of Harrow's mountaineering club had been worried about his suffering academic work and convinced him to join a trip to the Alps. There, near the summit, he had seen his father. After that, the higher he climbed, the likelier it became that a companion would appear near the summit. Perhaps wishing it would happen made it more likely. That's all the company he had ever wanted—until John's company had been forced upon him at Annapurna, and he discovered that he might just prefer a living, breathing person beside him if he got into trouble.

Perhaps they both had exorcised their summit ghosts on Annapurna: Mark Wick and William Cavendish–Holmes may not haunt their steps again. In the book, John had explained what it felt like to go back to Annapurna after losing Wick there, and the decision he'd made upon summiting never to compromise his principles again. _John Watson will never refuse to help, even if the one needing it refuses to receive it._

Owing one's life to someone is hard. It's a debt hard to repay, except by living in a way that justifies the effort.

Sherlock suddenly realises John is continuing his explanation: "––wasn’t making much sense and had veered off the route and the fixed ropes without setting up any anchors for the traverse. It was a miracle that I found him, and that he hadn't been pushed off by the wind."

Sherlock is nodding. "I don’t remember a lot of the night we ended up having to bivouac in the hope of waiting out the snowstorm. I do know that I would have died if it had not been for John."

"That’s covered in more detail in the book, ' _A Doctor in the Death Zone_ '," John says a little mischievously, "Teasers are okay but please no spoilers, or readers won’t go and buy it."

Jason turns back to Sherlock. "You disappeared for almost a year, while he was writing his book. What happened?"

"I needed time to recover. The physical repercussions were bad enough, but I also needed to have time to think through what had happened, and whether I wanted to climb again. And, if so, under what conditions."

He'd spent the first months recovering from what his body had gone through on the mountain. Then, he spent a few months holed up in his flat, trying to understand why he suddenly felt so strange about climbing. And John. And Annapurna. And everything else. Why things had changed.

Not much made sense until he read John's book.

"What’s the verdict?" his interviewer asks.

"Yes, I will return to climbing. I have only half of the eight-thousanders done."

"Seriously? You barely survived, and you’re going up again?" Jason’s incredulity seems genuine.

He looks back over at John. "You think he should do this? And what about you? I thought you said you’ve given up climbing expeditions because of what happened on Annapurna."

" _No_ ," John snaps quickly. "You need to fix that if you’ve put it in your draft. What I said is that I’ve stopped _working as a_ _guide_ on commercial expeditions. I still love climbing, more than ever, and plan to use whatever I make out of the book for doing more of it on my terms. As for Sherlock, well, if he has the proper back-up in the future, preferably in the shape of me, then I'm all for his climbing again."

Sherlock is trying to comprehend what John has just said. They haven't discussed this yet; it's like they have both been dancing around the topic, almost afraid to bring it up lest an answer destabilise their fledgeling relationship. Is John really saying he would do this with him? Suddenly, the thought just takes Sherlock's breath away. He hadn't realised how much he wanted it until the possibility was real. _The best of all possible worlds…_

The night they'd spent together in John's hotel room had been followed by a morning of love-making much slower than their first, frantic release. It had been a while for both of them, so needing to release quickly the sharpest edge of all the pent-up energy had seemed logical. In the morning, a part of Sherlock had worried about what John really wanted—whether that first night together had been it and they had now concluded their story.

He should never have worried—a man who had spent six months writing a book about the two of them was not going to leave it at that. The three words John had spoken to him that morning had, thankfully, evaporated all his concerns. Barely even awake, John had reached out for him, pulled him close and planted a wet kiss somewhere between his cheek and his ear, and whispered to him: ' _be with me_ '. John hadn't specified how, not specified where, but it had been indicative that this was going to be more than a one-night-stand, more than just the after-burn of Annapurna and the book. Admittedly, Sherlock had gotten a bit embarrassingly emotional at that moment, but John hadn't cared, simply held him tighter under the duvet and asked him if there's anything he'd like to put down for the contents of a pre-ordered breakfast tray.

"Not letting you out of this bed anytime soon," John had joked. They ordered in a breakfast big enough to sustain them until dinner, tried out Galvin at Windows—the hotel's Michelin-starred restaurant, and stayed up late drinking wine, talking and enjoying each other under the freshly changed sheets.

That night, Sherlock dreamt of double-size sleeping bags.

The past few weeks with John staying at Sherlock’s flat in Knightsbridge have been best he remembers, but so much has still been floating in the air regarding their future. 

"I think we'd make a good team," John suggests, presumably to break the increasingly awkward silence.

Sherlock clears his throat and can't help the grin spreading onto his features. Suddenly, Jason's presence is a terrible irritant.

"You two… together? Doesn’t that put an end to solo ascents?" the journalist asks him.

"Not at all," John offers. "I think it’s possible to do both, to work with someone in the preparation stages, then to summit alone, with the other climber as back-up and support in case something goes wrong. I can do that for Sherlock."

"What about your own plans?" Jason asks. "If you're acting as his backup––"

"John would never be _just my back-up_. Any plans made would involve his ambitions and wishes," Sherlock cuts in. "He climbs the way he wants to climb; I climb the way I prefer. As John just explained, there may well be a mutually satisfying middle ground, and I'm sure we can find mountains to fit both our tastes and our life."

Jason looks from John to Sherlock and then back again. "So, you two… together."

"Yes," Sherlock answers, knowing that it is the solution that he has been seeking for more than a year. He isn't looking at John—he knows John had been the one to bring it up, but what if he gets second thoughts, sees sense, and goes away to do his own thing?

 _What an abominable thought_.

"Not just for the book tour?" Jason asks, brows slightly raised.

This time it is John who answers with a firm "Yes."

Sherlock's heart leaps into a joyous allegro, trilling madly against his ribs.

The book tour will take John to America in a fortnight, and he has already asked Sherlock to come with him. Sherlock had already decided that there is every reason to say yes to that invitation: on the simplest level, it is the least he can do to help boost John’s book sales. On the other, it gives him the opportunity to spend more time in John’s company, which is something he cannot get enough of. It's something he hadn't realised he had been missing, and now the realisation makes him want to soak up the attention and the closeness. He wants it more than climbing, more than any record as the twentieth person to summit all fourteen eight-thousander mountains. That will come later. Right now, he wants to climb into John's bed every night. Possibly also every morning. Perhaps occasionally on the afternoons, and _at_ _least_ twice on Sundays.

John Watson’s solidity, his integrity, and yes, his _charm_ draws Sherlock to him like a magnet. As someone who had denied himself human company for far too long, Sherlock is both terrified and exhilarated by how attached they have both become to this thing between them. Clearly, there is more to it than the fact that John had saved his life. In that act, John Watson had made Sherlock realise that the connections between two human beings could outweigh logic, defy the odds and be something more profound that he would have ever believed possible. He can't wait to experience how that could make climbing different. _Better. More memorable. Less lonely._

In addition, the last two weeks—and their first night together in particular—have proven to Sherlock something he’d suspected at Base Camp first up in the mountains. Their attraction had been real, it had not been diluted by not seeing one another in a full year, and John Watson is undeniably, completely, fascinatingly, utterly, overwhelmingly _hot_. At Base Camp, things had remained courteously distant, but now Sherlock enjoys the physical reaction he can easily develop simply from John's presence, as if the pull of their sexual attraction is thawing feelings he had thought long buried in the emotional permafrost he'd carefully built.  In the cold emptiness of ice and rock that has been his world, John Watson is a beacon of warmth, a refuge against the grating solitude that he had once thought to be his lot in life. If anyone were to ask, he'd deny it of course to preserve the image he has tried to construct in the press, but the truth is that he is totally, completely _addicted_ to the man sitting next to him.

McAllister has turned his attention back to John. "Well, this seems to have changed things. So, let me ask again, John, any plans for a second book?"

"Well, I––"

"There's certainly no shortage of potential subjects," Sherlock interjects, "Even though I haven't been climbing much during the past twelve months, I have not rested on my laurels. One development is that I've been in talks with the Discovery Channel for a documentary and a possible companion book for which John would be the _perfect_ author. The permit for Bhutan which has taken me years to secure includes ten people, so if he'll have me, I would gladly take John there. The country has more unclimbed mountains over six thousand meters than anywhere else in the world, due to long-standing government restrictions. So, it's very much an undiscovered world for mountaineering. John and I have discovered that we both have strong views on how important it is to control access and protect these fragile environments from the sort of mass tourism that is destroying Everest."

"What are your plans about Himalayan climbing? When can we expect another attempt on one of those eight-thousanders?"

"Soon. I'm talking to some sponsors about Nanga Parbat in the year after next's season. And, with John's support, I may alter my approach to alpine-style climbing to minimise risks further. Having to worry less about things and sharing the planning would free up my imagination and my logical skills for the actual climbing. I can and will continue to do this."

"Nanga Parbat is the one nick-named Killer Mountain; I read it is notoriously difficult. Why that one?" Jason asks, "Apart from the fact that you have not done it yet out of the eight-thousanders?"

"Because it’s there," Sherlock announces with a quirked-up lip. The phrase is a well-known and clichéd quote from George Mallory who died climbing Everest.

John rolls his eyes and chuckles, and Sherlock and Jason join in the amusement.

But, then the magazine comes out, that’s the title of the article.

"They will never get it," he announces with a huff over tea and toast in his—their?—kitchen overlooking Ennismore Gardens.

"Who will never get what?" John shifts his Times so that he can see Sherlock.

"The _normal_ people. They soak up the buzzwords and overemphasise the risks and always fail to understand why we climb."

"Well, we don't understand their lives, do we?" John asks, sneaking a bite from Sherlock's piece of toast, heavily laden with honey.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is [the final part of my tumblr production diary](http://jbaillier.tumblr.com/post/179852349945/now-as-we-get-to-enjoy-the-last-chapters-of-the).
> 
>  


	18. On Belay, Always

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all, who have shared this journey.
> 
> This chapter was originally drafted by 7PercentSolution, and expanded and edited by J. Baillier.

>  
> 
> _"May your trails be crooked, winding, lonesome, dangerous, leading to the most amazing view. May your mountains rise into and above the clouds."_  
>  _—Edward Abbey_  
>    
> 

  
  
**——Baltoro Glacier, Pakistan——**  
  
**——Four years after Annapurna——**  
  
  


John is looking up at the forbidding face of the second highest mountain in the world. With an angle of ascent rising over 2,800 meters of vertical climb in less than 4,000 meters of horizontal distance, the torturous south face of K2 is among the steepest of the world's highest routes. The north face, on the Chinese side, is even worse. Whichever approach one takes, it's a frighteningly exposed climb. This is an eight-thousander which many would avoid like the plague after escaping from its clutches once.

John has summited it successfully once before, on a day when bad weather had nearly driven him back to Base Camp before even leaving Camp Two.

"Remind me why we are doing this?" he asks his partner.

"Because we _can_ , and because it's a delectable technical challenge. And, this one's missing from my collection."

The baritone voice comes from a mouth that is smiling. John knows this because, after years of living, loving, and climbing together, he and Sherlock are now so familiar with each other that he doesn’t have to lower the monoscope to look at the man to know what his facial expression is.

Sherlock’s excitement is contagious, and it is one of the things that binds the two men together so tightly. From him, John borrows the courage he sometimes lacks, and in return he curbs Sherlock's enthusiasm when it threatens to turn too bloody-minded and risky.

John is now climbing mountains properly again, rather than just guiding climbing parties on the easiest available routes he has already negotiated before. The money from his two books and selling the movie rights to the first have made it possible for John just to climb. And, if he manages a third book—he's been thinking of trying his hand at a romantic mountaineering novel next—then he might be able to fund many more adventures. Sherlock would probably offer to pay both their expenses from his seemingly bottomless trust fund, his modelling gigs, and the line of climbing equipment he's recently designed with Arcteryx, but John wants to carry his weight.

The only responsibility he has for now is to keep his climbing partner and himself alive and well enough to finish Sherlock’s ambition: he wants to be the twentieth climber to manage to summit all fourteen of the eight thousanders without supplemental oxygen, and to have made the fastest alpine-style ascents of as many of them as possible. It had taken eighteen months for the mountaineering authorities to decide that his Annapurna I summiting counted as one done without it. Thankfully, it was possible to establish that the oxygen administration by John to stall his cerebral oedema happened below the required distance from the summit needed to qualify. And, despite Sherlock’s fears that he’d forgotten to take the photograph needed to verify his successful in getting to the summit, the evidence had been found on the man’s camera after he was taken by helicopter from Base Camp to a hospital in Kathmandu. John had breathed a sigh of relief when the decision had been announced, because there was no way he was going to go near Annapurna ever again. _Been there, done that, got the scars to prove it._

Last year, the two of them had done Gasherbrum I and II, learning a lot about climbing the Karakoram mountains in the process. Like Reinhold Messner in the 1980s, he and Sherlock had begun with Gasherbrum II, and then Sherlock had gone straight on to the summit of I, in true alpine style without stopping at Base Camp. He'd pioneered a new route which won him the _Piolet d’Or_ that year—the French mountaineering community’s "Golden Ice Axe" award for ' _originality of choice, innovative nature in conducting the ascent_ ' and as an ' _example of how the practice of alpinism is in perpetual evolution'_.

K2 has been on Sherlock's wish list for a long time, and as reluctant as John is to return there, he has no sustainable counter-arguments to doing it. The technical aspects of it will be child's play for Sherlock's skills, leaving only the aspects beyond a climber's control to threaten their safety.

Getting the permits has posed the greatest challenge yet; tensions in northwest Pakistan hadn’t helped the process. The permits for the Gasherbrums in Gilgit Baltistan were much easier to get; they waited their turn on K2 for three years. Another thing they had done while waiting was adding an alpine-style fast ascent of Nanga Parbat to Sherlock’s tally—an ascent which became the subject of a Discovery Channel documentary about the mountain. John had summited it once before, but his first jaunt up had been done with a commercial expedition, the rules of which had forced him to adhere to the gradual approach of the rest of the group.

The first successful summit of Nanga Parbat by Hermann Buhl in 1953 had been done not only solo but also without oxygen, and it was the only one of the eight thousanders to have its first successful climb done that way. Sherlock had followed the man’s route, the so-called Rakhiot Flank—even timing things so that he rose to the summit at seven in the evening just as Buhl had, and then halting his descent to bivouac overnight as the German had done. The ratings and audience figures for the documentary had boosted Sherlock’s celebrity status into the stratosphere. John's second book had been an accompaniment to the documentary—called _In His Footsteps_ —and it had been as successful as his first, the earnings padding their pockets nicely for this K2 attempt. Offers for sponsorship deals had also rolled in, allowing them to pick and choose, and make sure the contracts suited their philosophy and their timetable.

The next five weeks will be spent here at the K2 Base camp climbing, preparing and getting ready for the final ascent. John is glad that there are no cameras this time, no distractions; while Nanga Parbat most certainly rivals K2 as a killer mountain, the world's second highest peak has always felt like a whole different level of threat due to how desolate and exposed it is. Everest is about height, K2 and Parbat are about technical skill. It is logical that the number of successful summits of K2 is less than a tenth of Everest. K2, like Annapurna I, is reserved for the elite, most of whom have the patience to deal with multiple failed attempts, and less than two hundred people have ever managed to summit both it and Everest.

Of course, patience is not a virtue of Sherlock’s character, and the red tape between him and K2 had been the cause of many a tantrum. In a way, his impulsivity, speed and boundless energy are a part of what makes the two of them successful as a pair; John’s natural caution and scrupulous attention to detail balances Sherlock’s risk taking and athleticism. John is with him throughout the route planning, the acclimatisation and the weeks of preparation prior to the ascent. Only at the precise height needed to qualify for the solo no-oxygen record would he allow Sherlock off the leash. They always carry personal radios, and John makes his own way up on oxygen to ensure that he's in good shape and close at hand, should anything happen that needed medical intervention. Sherlock no longer shuns the radio connection; they keep in nearly constant touch when they're not within each other's line of sight.

 _The Hare and the Tortoise_ is what John jokingly calls their approach. Sherlock’s rapid alpine style means he sometimes makes the summit and is on his way down by the time John reunites with him. It doesn’t bother him; for John, climbing has never been about the summit; it’s about the experience. And, now that he is sharing it with Sherlock, he is happier than he’s ever been in his life.

He shields his eyes from the glaring sun and watches the veil of snow blowing off the top of the mountain.

He and Sherlock may be comfortable with each other, and well equipped for the challenges of any eight-thousander, but this one still scares him.

  
  
-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-

  
Over the next few days, John tries to deal with his anxieties.

There are three commercial expedition groups sharing Base Camp with them for this season. Unlike most of the other eight-thousanders, the climbing window for K2 is ruthlessly short: from June to early August. Winter ascents are a game for the mad, bad, and too-dangerous-to-know-better climbers, mostly Poles who have tried but not yet succeeded in a winter approach. K2 remains the only 8 000 metre mountain to have defied humanity’s ambitions for a winter summit, but thankfully it is something that John will never have to deal with, because not even Sherlock would attempt a solo ascent without oxygen outside the usual climbing season. 

Four days after their arrival, as they're walking back to their tent from dinner, John is quiet after discussing his previous K2 expedition in the mess tent with some other climbers.

They are using the same approach that Sherlock had on Annapurna, this time with a company called Himex. Paying for some of the services of a commercial company to deal with transport, food and local liaison (no one can climb in northwest Pakistan without a local to negotiate passage with the military authorities and the local population); they will use the Himex Base Camp facilities, the communications equipment and whichever of the fixed ropes of Himex are needed for a set price, but make their own ascents without being tied to anyone else's schedules.

Their reason for joining the sixteen climbers on the Himex trip is because they are the only one of the four companies at base camp this year who would be using the Cesen Route—one that avoids the notorious Black Pyramid. The other teams are using the full Abruzzi—a more traditional route, one that has led to 75% of the successful summits.  Bypassing one of the four most technically difficult climbing challenges on their route will enable a faster alpine-style ascent, since it will be less physically demanding on someone not using supplemental oxygen. Once Sherlock had begun his initial planning and research for the mountain, he had conceded that his original dream of using the Southwest Pillar route was insanity.

Another advantage of the Himex itinerary is that they were able to spend two days at the base camp of Broad Peak as part of the acclimatisation programme. It’s only six kilometres from K2, so John and Sherlock had taken advantage of that to make an ascent to the summit, adding yet another of the eight-thousanders to Sherlock’s tally.

As they hike towards their tent in the moonlight, Sherlock falls into step right beside John. "What’s bugging you?" he asks bluntly. He is attuned to John's moods as John is to his.

"If we get similar weather this time to I had the last time around on summit day, I'll insist we postpone. I just think we have to be patient with the summit bid, and I know that me saying that is going to piss you off."

Sherlock shrugs. "You know me too well." He gently bumps his elbow against John's arm. His tone is carefree, light—John hasn't annoyed him at all.

His assumption that things will all just work out, and luck will always be on their side grates on John's nerves. On Annapurna, luck had abandoned them almost completely. "Yeah, well, it took Gerlinder Kaltenbrunner six tries in three years before she made it to the summit in 2011. We don’t have to do it this time if the conditions aren't right for us."

"Just getting here was a pain in the arse. The idea of having to do it six times is just..." Sherlock groans.

The hard and uncomfortable eighty-kilometre trek up the Baltoro glacier had taken them eight days. The ordeal makes getting to K2’s base camp a form of acclimatisation in its own right. Unlike for the Annapurna ascent, there was never a chance of a helicopter drop. In Nepal, a copter ride to Everest costs only three thousand dollars; here in northwest Pakistan it would cost ten times as much, assuming a pilot and a plane was even available.

"Yeah, and that is bugging me, too, because it also means getting a sick or injured climber out is hellishly difficult. One of us gets injured at one of the higher camps on the mountain, forget it. Pakistan doesn’t have the kinds of specialised helicopters needed to reach those heights."

"John, you are catastrophising again." Sherlock zips open their tent and they slip in.

"No, I am being realistic. If what happened to you and me on Annapurna happens here on K2, then we won’t survive."

"Well, we will have to do our damnedest to make sure it _doesn’t_ happen again."

"Sometimes I really miss having the Summit Fever Sherpas around."

Sherlock nods. "I've never had any complaints about Feroze and Iftikhar, though."

Sherlock shares John's admiration for the Sherpa mountain guides they have encountered. They are hard-working, dedicated, skilled, perfectly acclimatised, and mostly a very modest group of climbers, and commercial service providers could never function without them, or their Pakistani equivalents. John and Sherlock's support team consists of two of Pakistan’s High-Altitude Porters with whom they’d worked at the Karakoram climbs.

Sherlock lights a propane lamp. The two-person tent is shielding them from a strong wind blowing down the glacier; the hiss of the lamp is competing for attention with the slap of tent fabric from around the camp—they are saving their headlamp batteries for the ascent. It'll be a cold night.

Here, at Base Camp, they share not only a tent but a large, puffy, down-filled sleeping bag designed for two. Once on their way to the summit, intimacy will take a back seat to necessity and they have their own single bags but here, they get to live like the couple they are.

John opens his notebook and reads out loud the first entry under K2. It’s a quote from the Italian climber Fosco Maraini, describing the mountain and its name: " _just the bare bones of a name, all rock and ice and storm and abyss. It makes no attempt to sound human. It is atoms and stars. It has the nakedness of the world before the first man—or of the cindered planet after the last_ ".

Sherlock leans over his shoulder and peeks at John’s scrawl. "Waxing a bit too dramatic for my taste, and unnecessarily grim-sounding."

"It’s a grim place."

"I wouldn’t know. Not yet, anyway. Will that be in your book?"

"I've not really planned a book, yet—I'm just collecting stuff. A lot has already been written about K2, and I'm not sure yet if I'd got anything pertinent to add."

"You could always just sing my praises. People seemed to like that in your first book." Sherlock stretches out into his full height on top of the sleeping bag.

John is sitting beside him, so Sherlock shifts to lie on his side to face John. "I do remember you telling me that this one is the one you'd least want to do again—apart from Annapurna, I presume. What is it about K2 that has you spooked?"

John sighs. "Let’s start with the weather. If it isn’t the altitude that gets you, it’s the wind. Doesn't even need to be a storm."

He hardly needs to tell Sherlock the basic geographic facts: K2 is further north and west than the other large Karakoram peaks and takes the brunt of the weather fronts.

Sherlock gives a dismissive grunt. "Not so bad this year. And, it's not as though we could pick a year. At least we’re finally here."

They’d got one of the 112 permits issued back in 2016 but deferred it when it became clear that the weather conditions were not going to favour an ascent that year. In fact, no one that year had made it to the top. Everest had never had a blank year in the past forty; K2 has too many. In 2008, eleven climbers died there, in the space of thirty-six hours of bad weather. Yet, if the weather co-operates, then formidable triumph is possible: in 2012, on a single day, twenty-eight climbers had made it to the top. With two more successful summiters that year, thirty people at the top within one summer season was an astonishing success. In contrast, 2017 saw just one team making it to the summit. It might have been two teams if John and Sherlock had been there but needing to make a decision whether to commit to the Nanga Parbat documentary had made them defer again.

John sniffs. "And, if you survive the weather, then there's the avalanches to finish you off."

In 2016, an avalanche had taken out Camp 3 at 7 800 meters, burying everything—ropes, tents, oxygen and equipment—forcing all of that year's teams to throw in the towel. For once, Sherlock had been happy that the dodgy weather meant they didn’t even give K2 a try. Deferment meant they didn’t have to pay for a new permit, unlike all the other teams that had showed up only to be forced to beat a hasty retreat.

"You are quite the Eeyore tonight. What’s gotten into you?" Sherlock’s tone has turned heavy with concern.

"Statistics. The K2 kill rate is sobering. I _know_ you know that as well as I do, and I know we've beat even worse odds on Parbat and Annapurna but for once, think about it. Three hundred and sixty-seven successful summits have cost the lives of eighty-four climbers. And, getting there isn’t the biggest challenge. I’m going to keep reminding you on a daily basis that one in every seven who reach the summit _dies_ on the descent. Without oxygen, it's one in _five_ ; oxygen seems to make a bigger difference here than on many other climbs. I don’t like that."

Sherlock's lids descend, then he opens his eyes again with loving exasperation in his gaze. "Ah. So, we arrive, yet again, at the oxygen discussion."

"It's such an easy way to lower the risk. Using it wouldn't really lessen the value of your achievements when you pioneer routes, and you'll never be the _first_ to summit any eight-thousander without it, because there have already been so many."

Sherlock slides his arms around John's waist, pressing his face against the small of his back briefly before returning to lying on his side. "I promise you––John, _listen to me_ ," he pleads, and John shifts to focus on him instead of staring at the pages of his notebook. "I promise you that if push comes to shove, if I get into trouble up there—on _any_ mountain—and you tell me to go on O, _I will_."

"I had to sort of wrestle you for it on Annapurna."

"You shouldn't think of what happened on Annapurna as any kind of a means to predict my behaviour. That's not me anymore."

"You know what altitude does; people do stupid things up there."

"And you have proven yourself exceptionally resistant to cognitive dysfunction in the Death Zone. That's why we do this together. Your earlier success on K2 means that you know what to expect, which lowers our risk level. You're being superstitious if you think having been up there once already makes it somehow _more_ dangerous for you to do it again—it's the opposite."

Sherlock’s long fingers reach over and pluck the notebook out of John’s hands. "We have weeks to go before any of what you've just complained about becomes an issue. So, enough of that."

"It's my job to keep you safe."

"And apparently it's my job to help you stop yourself from navel-gazing and being distracted by mathematics. On every climb, we could have been the ones who perished, but we're still here—let's make that mean something. Quitting would mean that we let those risks paralyse us. We're not here because we want to avoid dying. When we're not climbing, we're just existing— _your_ words, from _your_ book, repeatedly used to describe your life before you discovered climbing."

Sherlock rolls off to the side so that John can open the long zipper of their two-person sleeping bag. They quickly remove the outer layers of their clothing and slip into the bag wearing just their thermal underwear.

John grabs the woollen jumper he sometimes uses as an extra pillow and shoves it under his head so that he can lie on his side more comfortably, facing his partner.

Sherlock leaves the lamp on and slides his palm onto John's hip. When he speaks again, his voice is quiet and uncharacteristically patient: "John…We're here because we want to _live_. I have no intention of dying now that I have you."

John presses his cheek against his bony shoulder, covered by the thin, black, long-sleeved, merino wool shirt. He has no words to argue. Sherlock had admitted to him in that restaurant in London that, before Annapurna, he did not much care about his own life—whether it continued or not. But, then he met John who refused to value his existence as cheaply, forcing Sherlock to re-evaluate his views.

They had each made the other care about how they lived their lives. Sherlock had been the one who shook John out of his reverie, forced him to abandon the routines he had grown to hate, reminded him of the passion he had allowed to wither. This is why they are better together; their thinking compliments each other's.

"In the meantime," Sherlock changes the subject, now sounding more excited than sombre, "I want to test out a theory I formed some months ago." He slides his hand closer to John's groin slowly, teasingly.

"What’s that?"

"Allow me to demonstrate." Sherlock's right hand begins to stroke a certain part of John’s anatomy through his thermal underwear, and it doesn't take long to get him hard. Sherlock's left hand reaches out of the bag to switch off the gas lamp while he leans over to kiss John.

Making love in a sleeping bag requires athleticism and contortionist abilities which they both have the fitness for, but it's still challenging—not only for the constriction it places on movement, but also the dangers of overheating. There's also the issue that when sweaty, a sleeping bag needs time to dry before it becomes comfortable again and can pose a risk of hypothermia.

Hygiene is one more challenge. Allowing the emissions of their lovemaking to freeze and unfreeze daily for weeks would turn their sleeping conditions into a biohazard so they make sure to have tissues and wet wipes always available. Having no shower available means that they won't go for anything involving penetration. Hand jobs are their tent life staple, complemented by the occasional blowjob.

A third challenge is privacy. They've pitched their tent away from the other climbers but, when it's a windless night, their fellow Base Campers won't be confused about the source of the sounds. At least they're not the only ones going for it. Sherlock had initially been self-conscious about having sex at Base Camp and he can admittedly get loud, but John had told him that every climber should understand the need for such human things out here as sex. After all, climbers don't really get to have much privacy for any kind of personal stuff—such as bowel movements and emotional outbursts—so it's _all fine_.

Tonight, Sherlock teases him by taking things slowly—halting his hand whenever John's breathing picks up and the pressure begins to build in earnest. Eventually, John begins lusting for a bit of revenge, so he grabs hold of the wrist visible above his waistband. "Turn around," he tells Sherlock, spreading his arms invitingly. Once his back is pressed against John's stomach, John slips the hand the arm of which is now supporting Sherlock's neck under his shirt, flicking the tip of his thumb across a pert nipple. John's other hand wastes no time in finding Sherlock's cock.

"Not going to delay," John tells him in a low voice as he finds a rhythm of tight, brutal strokes while trapping Sherlock tightly against him. "You're going to come, and then you're going to finish what you started." He nips a row of kisses with a bit of teeth along the sharp line of Sherlock's shoulder, and gets a shudder and a sigh as a reply.  
  


  
-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-

 

Twenty minutes later, as the rush of post-orgasmic bliss begins to ebb away, and their chests are no longer heaving with exertion- and ecstasy-induced mild hypoxia, John crawls close to his partner and rests his head between Sherlock’s shoulder and chest. Smiling, he asks quietly, "Why is this something we always do on the night before we leave Base Camp to go up for the first time?" They are planning on a leisurely acclimatisation climb to Camp Two tomorrow.

He can feel the rumble as well as hear the laughter in Sherlock’s baritone. "Maybe it’s just another exercise in acclimatisation, a natural form of vasodilation to maximise oxygen uptake. Less side effects than Viagra, or wouldn't you agree, Doctor Watson?"

John nods. "If you hadn’t made that comment two days ago about Jeremy Noakes being too cocky I wouldn’t have noticed him using the stuff. How did you guess that he was dodging Himex's no-doping rules that way?"

"I don't _guess_ —I developed my suspicions when I watched him pee one time."

"What? You _watched_ Jeremy take a leak? Should I be jealous? Were you scouting the talent?"

"I followed him the next day and saw him pop one; after all, I know what the pills look like. I actually had a conversation about them with Al North at Annapurna; he’d used it himself but not for climbing. _Age shall not wither a penis_ was what he said to me, the mad old bugger."

John shakes his head, laughing at the nicer memories of their time at Annapurna. "Is that a habit of yours, then—stealing a look while airing your dick? I seem to recall you and I ended up wetting a rock not that far away from each other at Annapurna. It’s not like there was a lot of cover," John teases.

"There wasn't enough light that night, so unfortunately your measurements remained a mystery until after the book signing."

"You ever hook up with anyone on an expedition?" John asks, carding his fingers through Sherlock's hair; they get caught up in a tangle which he gently combs open.

Sherlock’s arm around John tightens their embrace. "Never. I never wanted anyone, until I met you. Of course, I sometimes, well, sometimes there were people–– I wasn't exactly _inexperienced_ when we met, you know," Sherlock points out. "There were offers, and sometimes I said yes."

"Why go for it if you weren't that keen?"

Sherlock would probably shrug if he wasn't being hugged so tightly. "It was an experiment, I guess; I was curious. Most of those encounters happened when I was using, which is known to lessen inhibitions. It was… alright, but not the same as with you."

"Yeah, well, I do strive for a better performance than 'alright'," John jokes and laces their fingers together. "Why do _you_ want this, every time, before we start the climb?"

There is a pause as Sherlock reflects. He averts his gaze and even in the dim light, John spots a bit of colour spreading on his cheeks. When it's a cloudless night, it's never completely dark, not even inside a tent.

"I _need_ to make love to you up here," Sherlock finally says. "It’s something you wrote about," he continues timidly, "I remember nearly choking on my tea the first time I read it. You said you wanted a _threesome_ with me and the mountains. Well, I think of it differently. Before we became partners, it was just me and the mountain. Now, I put _you_ between me and the climb. When we have sex up here it grounds me, reminds me of what is important to me. So, when I am up there alone with the ice and snow, I know I have someone to come back to, a reason to return, because when I think about the last time we would have been together, I can't bear to think it would have been the _last_ time. Before you, I sometimes wondered why I should even bother to descend. And, in the year after Annapurna, I had that feeling too often. It’s why I wouldn’t climb—I didn’t trust myself. You insisted I was worth saving, but when you weren't there…"

They don’t talk much about Sherlock’s hiatus—the year he’d spent recovering from the physical and mental consequences of what had happened near the summit of Annapurna I. John had written his book in that time, but Sherlock had just disappeared from public view.

' _Dealing with a few demons_ ' is about all John has been able to wrestle out of him. Until now.

He lifts his head away from Sherlock’s shoulder, and rolls so he is now leaning his chin on the man’s chest, looking straight into those blue-green eyes. In daylight, they are the colour of a mountain tarn—silver, blue, grey, green—ever-changing as the sun and the sky above reflects sunlight off the mountain snow. In the tent’s darkness, lit only by moonlight through the thin fabric, those amazing eyes are barely visible, but they are looking straight back at him, bright and honest.

John smiles. "You do know that is the reason why I insist on coming up behind you. Technically, you may be doing this solo, but you are not alone."

He is rewarded by an echoing smile from Sherlock. "You are my tether; you are in my bones, in the cells of my lungs, you are my oxygen; you make me breathe and keep me going. I am _never_ alone, now."

John’s eyes tear up and he snatches a quick breath before he can say what he has to say. "I don’t know what the hell I will do if something happens to you. That’s why I'm scared of K2."

"Hey… you really _are_ downright spooked about this?"

"Don’t know. Just am. Premonition or something."

"Do you want to stop? We can postpone it for another time."

"You’d do that?"

"I’d do anything for you. We’ve already got Broad Peak this season," Sherlock argues.

"Let me think about it. If at the end of this week, my head is still a mess about this one, then I might call it."

Sherlock’s jostles them so that he can wrap his arms around John’s shoulders. "That’s okay. Your decision."

They lie in the dark, inhaling the cold, sharp air in unison.

When John feels Sherlock’s breathing start to deepen as sleep approaches, he decides to ask _the_ question, the one that has always been unasked, the one he is still most afraid to hear the answer. For some reason, the solid mysterious mass of K2 behind their tent is making him ask it now.

"Sherlock, are you still awake?"

"Well, I am now."

"What if I get to the point where I want to call a halt to the whole thing?"

"Define what you mean by _whole_." The reply is a bit wary.

"The rest of the eight-thousanders, solo and without oxygen. If I asked you to stop that, would you still climb with me?"

"Always. Now let us both get some sleep."

"And when it comes time to stop climbing?" Age and illness will eventually catch up to every mountaineer.

"We’ll climb that particular mountain when we need to. But whatever happens, John, you come first. It's _not_ a threesome."

Relief floods into John. It feels a bit embarrassing, now, ever to have feared that Sherlock would choose a mountain over him. What he's just heard, from the mouth of a man who never talks about his emotions like this, has erased all his doubts.

"Good night, Sherlock."

"Yes, it is," his partner replies, and shoves his woollen sock -clad feet between John's ankles.

 

**— The End —**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We were most privileged to be treated to [this illustration by Khorazir for this chapter](http://jbaillier.tumblr.com/post/180009362145/khorazir-double-sleeping-bag-inspired-by-the).


End file.
